Your mother awake in the kitchen before we’ve slept,
tipping a coffee mug forward—through her small frame
to a window of horses & hay. She doesn’t mention
the bruising, our discretion unfurled along the highway.
I’ll notice it later, after losing the scarf I bought
to impress you somewhere under the bed. I’ll wake up
next to you, mid-afternoon: an RV stalled inside a garage,
& realize we are lying. The stuck smell of breath,
flattened joke of the body. You’ll be relieved it’s ending,
laughing your stomach into mine. I’ll admit more to you
than myself, staring at the wall beyond the windshield

Lauren Gilmore was born and raised in Spokane, WA. She writes poems, stories, and love letters, some of which have been read by other people. Her full-length collection, Outdancing the Universe, is available from the University of Hell Press. Lauren’s manuscript Common Teenage Mythology was a semifinalist in the 2017 Floating Bridge Press Chapbook competition. You can follow her at: https://twitter.com/laurnsaurus.

Photograph by Buddika Eranda.