SAMANTHA MOYA
intrusive thoughts always win
why lie
that when i close my eyes
i see taillights
becoming smaller, fading,
swallowed by an
impermeable nightness
how many times do
you have to dream a dream
before you can call it
a premonition,
a harbinger,
an episode of the twilight zone
if i slow the speed down
i can see myself tugging on
dad's faded purple shirt, can hear
my sobs that open the heavens
in the night, moonless
the taste of metal in my throat
and salt, without the strength
of a single belief, just the
unconditional love of
a 9-year-old girl
i dreamed of her
when i was 8
and then when i was 10
and when i was 12
and then 16, 17
18
19
20
i think i saw
the future
in my 9-year-old self,
pale thing, festering entry wounds,
she glimpsed the taillights fading
and then, a coda,
she sees her mother
gaunter than she remembers
standing next to her in the mirror
mom reaches for her hand, holding it
like a grenade
eyes meet in the glass, then
the car hits second gear
and speeds away into
a night called exile before
scene fades into morning
i wake up to my 30-year-old reflection
in a precariously hanging antique mirror
Samantha Moya is a data specialist with a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Colorado Boulder. Her work has been featured in Serotonin Poetry, The Raven Review, Epoch Press, and The Poetry Question. She currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She can be found at Twitter/X and Instagram @samanthalmoya.
