From the Passenger’s Seat

Briony Gylgayton

I sat like tightly woven wicker
leaning against glass
to smudge with my skin and
leave my breath.
Light spilled out into the road, but some of it caught
and reflected me back at myself. I saw
leaves dripping down from branches and washing away,
my days pulled away easy as onion skin.

I was coiled up
within my smudging skin.
Bright strands shivered and swung off
the boxy black corners of lamp posts,
Water scudded across the road
slick and cool as glass.

I looked outside and saw my body
running up into the hills.
Water parted the soil into
rills and gullies,
the cutting work of
wet hands.
Water feathered out and sprouted
from trees in trembling sheets.

When I looked outside, my reflection caught in the smudge my skin left
and reflected myself back at me, I saw
oak branches
twisted up in wicker coils tight
and restless.
Between rills and gullies of glass,
I saw myself running up into the hills.
And when I was so close
to the sticky rain that my
hands left smudges on the clouds,
I swung and shivered,
and the sky parted, easy as onion skin.