Consequence of Memory

You remember
wrinkles by his eyes, full lips.
Scent of cigarettes.
Bore of an insistent gaze.
Curled up on the bathroom floor
listening to the ringing.
Warm wet face.

There’s one man you can’t pass
without cringing—
maybe it’s the familiar flip
of a soft curl,
the deep-set eyes,
the brow line.
You hardly wonder
his name—meeting his eyes
fills the chest too full
of hot flushing dread
to wonder anything at all.
The mind sees with mirrors.

Your distress is unremarkable.
Your distress is just reflected light.



Maryka Gillis

Maryka Gillis is originally from Gloucester, Massachusetts, and recently graduated from Colorado College with a B.A. in Creative Writing. She is working on getting her first chapbook manuscript published and writes columns for Folded Word press. Maryka will pursue her deepest loves through seasonal work and travel for her post-graduation rebound, and plans on writing poetry for the duration of her life.

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