they/them: a poetry anthology

beyond the gloaming

Slip beyond the gloaming Thursday and
filter among my dreams, dip fingers through
a river; silk in slivers.
I am twelve and eyelids fluttering shut. My face
rounder, my eyes brighter where
sand and satin soothe them closed.
A faded Polaroid is lost among the tide, but
the 'vintage' filter just about does the job. Let it go,
tug the thirteen Instagram years from your shoulders;
I have not been alone for long.

Your sarcophagus is faded among shifting Sahara seas.
Your arms crossed over your chest. Breath –
down your neck, fading among your sleeves
(patterned, beaded regal) caught in the waver
of your lashes.
Hold your amulets close. The descent follows.
You will sleep through the Underworld, child king. Fear not.

Watch is shot. Anachronistic, it's full of silk and satin –
only right twice a day, and even then it spirals.
It's uncertain. A spider hangs above us,
plucking strands, and we're hanging too
in cocoons.
Safe in a muddled stupor – only time may tell
and we're divorced from it.
I can see the sea –

no, it's a river. Echoes crash against pebbles
from childhood, and the fabric shifts against my fingerprints.
I am seven, rounding the bend to the bay. I'm someone I didn't know I was.
I'm alone – slipping into stupor – trailing fingers through
a gloaming Thursday, pondering;
my omens dart about me.
Dreaming, I'm a king (of the castle), was a queen
with a broken watch (I watch the passage of time).