Road Trip to Analena East

by Lynne Sargent

All worlds are mirror ones

when seen through the rear-view.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected

to leave the Necromancer’s Danse—

that revolutionary alleyway—

feeling lively.

My energy and purse both drained,

pockets full of trinkets where I would have

memories, and I’m not sure the regret is all the poison

of expectation.

They said I would be reanimated,

but now I just feel like a zombie

in the King’s army,

each step like an automaton’s

if such things had homes,

or Kings, or were tourists,

looking in mirrors, at the past

like there is no future.