Horizon
We left the photo in its dollar store frame
behind glass in an old china cabinet —
you: cap in hand, arm loose around my shoulders,
the two of us near-blind in the daylight. Why did we go
before sunup, before your father’s truck darkened
its space in the drive?
Are the mountains not enough?
Will sea-level fit better?
Could the freshly blue-jeaned toddler, folded
into the crease of his father’s wallet, have seen
himself running from home in the night?
Could he have dreamed the sky so blue,
the smell of paint upon paint, hot metal
cleaved to k-rail?
Alicia Wright lives and writes in West Virginia and holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in River & South Review, Twelve Mile Review, Same Faces Collective, Thimble, and elsewhere.