We’re swinging interlaced
fingers as we march past monuments
and museums, pretending to stop
and look, I catch your eye
instead. We paint our initials in indigo
streaks on rocks we stole
from Olive Garden. Your finger
traces the scars on my thigh and I
whisper you their origins. Time
pretends to stop, don’t believe
it. Tomorrow, you’ll head
back on Route 50 and I will press
the flowers you gave me, so they
don’t seem dead.
Poem by Julia Shorr
Photo by Adam Strong
Julia Schorr has a BA in psychology from Salisbury University. Her poetry has appeared in The Shore Poetry and The Allegheny Review. She currently works at Cornerstone Montgomery as a Supported Employment Specialist and is a reader for Poet Lore.
Backwards Trajectory 