Flumes Volume 2: Issue 1, Summer 2017 - Page 35

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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.