22
Wild Horses
by Ingrid Keriotis
It all started with the wild horses.
Had I really see them that day
from my ‘91 Civic,
as they ran through the sagebrush, untamed
a blue storm rising as
their backdrop?
Did my body really lay down
in a hot spring filled with stars,
had I ridden a river at dawn
as it slipped between
brown canyon walls?
If the stories you tell
now are like dreams
then the images behind your eyes
must also be quietly unsure
of whether they
in their hues of blue and grey, tan and gold
even remember you.