Minneapolis
Maryka Gillis
How it felt to drive fast
through city blocks at night,
racing yellow lights
to reach the next one green.
How the neighborhood greyhound
who walked by every day
mirrored each season:
her thick coat, her sweater, her bare fur.
How, for once, I knew where my body was.
How snow piled up
on the conservatory’s glass walls
and showed us what it takes
to keep something alive.
We drifted past lime trees in t-shirts
and pretended to remember summer.
How the Grain Belt sign lit up
for the first time since ‘96,
brighter than December morning light.
How, after ten minutes of highway,
you’re out of the city.
Then grass, grass, grass.
Maryka Gillis
Maryka Gillis (she/her) spends her days writing poetry and her evenings serving ramen and beer. She holds a B.A. in English from Colorado College and lives in Providence, RI. Find more of her work at Up North Lit and The Maynard.