GUNNISON

WORDS & IMAGE: LILY MYERS

We drove all the way down the canyon in a car with faulty brakes. Parked and

walked parallel to the river in our sweat, stretching our drive-across-america legs.

We walked down a steep hill of rocks to get to the Gunnison, its water cold and wide.

I took off my shoes and crouched in the heat, growling like something inhuman. I

dipped my hair in its wetness. My phone had no reception; the boy I was falling out

of love with had asked me to call every night. I was growling and beginning to learn

what it was to pull away from that. And how delicious it was to let my body and

mind wander, down to the bottom of a canyon, away from him. I was with other

bodies instead—other crouching creatures by the river’s edge. The things girls

know. The things we know when no one else is around. We laughed together and I

felt no wanting. And there with my wet hair dripping down bare shoulders I

understood.

This is it.

These are them, the shining ones, the ones I am drawn to like fierce magnets. We ate

candy in a car all the way across America in various stages of love and lovelessness

and that wasn’t the point. The point was our bodies in the car together. The descent

into the canyon. The way I cried on a bed in Santa Fe to these girls I didn’t yet know

well. He is gone, and they are still here. They are still here. At the top of the canyon

we ran through brush to see the sunset. We caught it in our bare hands, shining

through bunches of tall grass. It was going down but for a moment we caught it. For

a moment we held it, and looked at each other, and laughed,

and that moment,

those holy bodies,

that was the point.