Gillian Thomas

Mother, You’re a Boneyard

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2025: VOL. 40.

-after Gustavo Hernandez and his poem
“Summer, You’re a Boneyard”

and you used to be a Merry-Go-Round
of endless words, the looping of horses a blurred cycle
gathering me from the dust of a fallen circle;
a tire swing broken free from its chain. I remain
yours, Mother. You kept me full, remember?
We used to know each other. Wet. Dry. Tears. Icy
silence. Laughter. Screams. Forward march. Retreat.
I never wanted amber highlights or the dyeing
of your hair. I rebelled your perfect posture
and the editing of words. Scrabble, fudge, lasagna;
humid cities, Miserables. Memories of rage
I insist my brain must eclipse, for love
of pancakes, horror stories and weekend trips.
Your eyes in frames of a neutral tone, music
of Cassidy and Croce. Holidays ending in thickness
of German chocolate cake, while neurons fade;
blankness encroaching. I’ll miss you I shout
into the void, lacking anger. I regret nothing, I lie
as I seethe. Opening my eyes, more time
stands before us. You’re still here—
withered flesh, in front of me.

Gillian Thomas graduated New York City’s Hunter College with a degree in English and Theater. Thomas’ work has been featured in such journals as Eclectica Magazine, The Mid-Atlantic Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Gargoyle, Ligeia Magazine, Blue Unicorn, Pembroke Magazine and many more. She’s currently at work on her first book, writing amongst the chaos of her husband, son and 2 barking Miniature Schnauzers near Washington, DC. You can find her at gilliansalwayswrite.com.