These maps of us I carry in my head.
Alone, I still trace all the old rivers
twisting through the liquid night.
They bring me floating back
to the headwaters where we began,
where we drank ourselves new.
There were no towns or cities to stop the roads
so we drove through
watching the land of open range
act out what happens.
We met so we could wander.
The sky was everything we touched,
the mountain range only inches away
but a hundred miles long.
The airwaves we never saw coming.
We couldn’t name them or give them a latitude,
but they kept us going from page to page.
Aden Thomas grew up in central Wyoming. Previously, his work has been featured here in Eunoia Review, but also in Kentucky Review, Inflectionist Review, and The Blue Mountain Review. His website is https://adenthomas.com.