Poetry by Autumn Thomas

     Rob Hurson CC




Of monsters and men

I wanted to write of self-indulgence, pity
the norm of lover's breath, 
sweet and stinking in
the morning light; 
of blanket sadness  
like a flame etching skin and 
of the wondrous joy creating 
laugh lines and crow's feet 
but 

The great blue heron was by the road this morning. 

his great dagger bill 
resting in solace 
Wings fully extended like 
a shaggy dog shaking from near-drowning 

Even the skunk, 
tried to warm me 
in the light of the crescent moon 
when I was drunk and gay
attempting normalcy 

he crept behind me
tail erect and stomping
handstand like a circus act,
scared and apprehensive 

if I am him and he is me 
Then who is the mother?
Is she beside herself in this fate?
Do her leaves shake in the wind of 
Modernity?

but if she is made of the dust and the stars 
multicellular and unicellular 
here and there
solid and translucent 
then absurdity is fact, and 
reality is formidable, malleable 
and happiness is rebellion 

I see it in the warmth of cat’s toes 
gripping my finger
in the touch between two women 
the earnestness in their eyes
the strength in binding one's chest 
in choosing their own name 
and in doing so creating themselves 
from the clay of creation 
In the strength of ebony skin 
still soft after the hardness of their lives 

And in the lakes, few humans have yet to reach
ducks dancing in courtship
taking great care to nourish the next
neighborly
and in the great heron
keeping watch over the solitude.

​



Paradoxically Candid
For Mary Oliver’s wild geese

And who am I 
When I’m resting tired temples 
Against the crook of your shoulder 
High and smiling 
At the fairy light glow 
Halo’d round your face like a blanket

An image so unreal 
It feels like nature.

And who are you
Spilling your guts sleepily 
As if my face is reflective 
Chewing up pieces of yourself 
And spitting them in my mouth 
Allofeeding, baby bird 

If this is candid, 
Then love is a sweet Prescott sunset
A blue heron gliding against his water shadow
Red rock skinks sliding into childsplay
as the butes darken and the bushes shine bright 

And as the wild geese fly over us,
I know it to be true.

​

​
Autumn Thomas is a young, queer writer from the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. After graduating from Hollins University in 2024, she moved to the deserts of Prescott, Arizona, to continue the art of observation. She works as a barista daily and edits Woodsqueer Literary Journal by night. Her work can be read in Cleaver, Belt Review, Fork Apple Press, Active Muse, Exist Otherwise, Children Churches and Daddies, and Red Rose Thorns.