Clarence Thomas Releases His Concurrent Opinion on Our Honeymoon

i did not know the lake was there

until it was, gray paper

and smog and horizon spread thin

and framed by the intersection

of 1200 east and state street.

(i had drunk the ocean by this point,

polished bleached uintas,

traced the colorado river's spine)

never conceiving such

vastness before,

i asked my father if it was a mirage,

(suburb then sea then sea then

mountains,

distant and incorporeal—)

the shimmering past the trees

and the brown brick church

and the walmart

and the interstate.

(i could have searched the internet,

but this was 2009, and my

father knew everything)

he furrowed his brow,

insisting that the water had always

been there,

(like when i said

i was afraid what the world

would make of us,)

the body had been watching me

drift off into sleep, forehead

pressed against the minivan window

a thousand times,

(and you kissed my forearm

on the sandy banks)

waiting

for when my small, ripe eyelids

would flutter open and look.