Giving way and the lake snakes a carful of weary. Dirty geese in the water light. Feed in, black Escalade. Proficiency stalls.
This is how we make it, watery reflections on the underside stone or plaster. A dove cuts through. A fawn looks on, irritated, and you have to understand that right now, your destiny is all fucked up.
Obeyed, the sun rises all at once. Green-gray, your heart beats in both your hands held out to that sun, warmed, twitching regular infusion as all memorials loom in the new dawn. Press your thumbs into the valves.
You tell you the radio blares. You smile, you pinch your cheek, render you light speaking, render you laser light.
Flowering between legs and fingers, black and white horses. The daily rainbow above your office park. The horses gallop back up under spanning skin, up the arms. Days and nights pass in nights, the twitching growing ever sharper.
All that pulse and so little payout.
And so on.
Originally from the Hudson Valley in New York, Thea Brown is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop now living in Washington, DC. Recent or forthcoming publications include poems in Mississippi Review, Sink Review, The Collagist, jubilat, and elsewhere, as well as a chapbook called We Are Fantastic from Petri Press.