some nights the moon is a train

it takes me a while

to love things.

 

but then i am

loyally locked in.

 

the colonial blue

house holds the

 

key, but no door.

in the back-ground,

 

the long bow of the

cello sings up from

 

the depths. one floor up,

children grow in their

 

beds. dad used to tease

about putting us in a vice

 

overnight. i took his words

to heart: the dreams that

 

shortened me still follow—

strong shadows of

 

nails and hair; of things

that once lived, fighting

 

to weave them-selves

back in, back to life.

 

some nights the moon

is a train. i am boarding

 

her, i am carrying

alstroemerias, i am

 

smiling as the tiny

gear of a whisper

 

turns. the shrieking,

pulsing, turning to

 

blood is all in my

head; out-side, the

 

view is silent: a giant

wheel of compliance.

 

 

 

tiny home

Josie looked around at the giant house one last time: the vast emptiness, the sloping walls meeting the sprawling floors, the cathedral tiled tub scrubbed as shiny as ever, the multiple pockets of closets where things had crouched hidden for years—now flung open, naked and wanting. She was ready: to say goodbye, to close the multiple doors, to run as fast as she could from this wide domestic spread and its wider clutches.

She had a ticket. She felt it in her pocket. Its bulky presence reminded her that she had somewhere to be, something important to do. She couldn’t miss her train. She couldn’t let the people on the train down. They were counting on her. The whole world was counting on her.

In one hand she carried an argyle suitcase, and in the other a worn leather briefcase. On her back was the remainder of her belongings, stuffed into the Jansport backpack she had carried all through high school. Everything else she had ever owned was gone—sold, thrown away, given away, left behind, scattered to the wind.

She felt lighter as she walked away from the cab toward the platform. She felt so light she imagined dropping her remaining possessions to the ground, lifting up off the concrete slab—toes pointed, arms outstretched, face tilted toward the sun as she rose above the crowds watching her ascent.

The train whistle cut through her thoughts as people scurried around her. She felt her feet touch down, and she told them to move forward toward the open door. It was a narrow door, and she turned sideways as she struggled to squeeze her bags through. Where was the conductor to take her ticket? To help her with her bags? To give her a gaze of quiet assurance? Was this even the right train?

She followed the line of travelers down the aisle. They seemed to move with confidence. They seemed to believe. Really, they were just competing for an empty window seat. She finally found one near the rear of the car. She laid her luggage on the aisle seat for a moment, catching her breath before lifting the heavy suitcase up onto the shelf above.

She had not been able to part with her favorite books. They were more important than clothes. She had kept only three changes of clothes, two pairs of shoes (one of which she was wearing—her trusty hiking boots), a blanket, a small pillow, her father’s checkered necktie, a few worn undergarments, and her grandmother’s pink silk scarf. It was the only pink thing she owned. The rest of the trunk was filled with Jane Austen, Pablo Neruda, Margaret Atwood, Paulo Coelho. There were many more, but it had been difficult to choose. She would have rather gone with just the clothes on her back and carried only books. But she noticed that the fewer belongings she had, the more attention she was able to give each one—like dear children important in their own eternal way. While packing she had talked to each one, tucking it in tightly to its tiny assigned space: Don’t worry, you are safe, you are not alone. It was important to say these things out loud.

At the next platform she would board a larger train with a small compartment all her own. Here she would live for the next few months, transverse the states while writing, watching out the wide windows, waiting for a sign. Inside, within the four small stationary walls, she would find and welcome home all the selves that had wandered away over time and become lost within a fractured body, a fragmented memory, a starving marriage, an immoveable mansion. Josie closed her eyes and let the lull of the train put her into a deep sleep.

train of thought

i am more than these lists running in my head; i am more than this space ship of a body; i am more than a paycheck at the end of the week; i am more than a heavy heart; i am more than a birthing machine; i am more than the maker of chocolate cakes; i am more than a wet dream; i am more than these ten fingers; i am more than these five holes; i am more than this lapse in judgment; i am more than a time marker; i am more than the lover of hide-and-seek; i am more than this train running off its tracks; i am more than these trophy cells; i am more than the keys of this chain, board, lock; i am more than a place to put your pieces; i am more than a piece; i am more than not.

 

of a truth

listen: the

signal song

stretching out

its mile arms

 

skinny-slippery

as a slink

 

a steel tower

turned on

its

side

 

it surrounds,

wraps you in

moments–

given, taken

 

locks, scarves,

and lockets

shaken out

of lecturns

 

listen: the

whistle of

the spirit

calling to

the lantern

 

to the mind

you put on a

long-distance

speed track

 

without the

heart

the fingerpaints of god

like falling in

love: can’t under

 

stand how it works;

why it stops working

 

or how it winds up

again. how it

 

rings out

in the night–

 

red-sings

across

 

steeples and 

train bells–

 

like how a rail thinks big

and a tower thinks high.

self, immolation

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the galvanized timeline

of the indigo

 

seeking a sacred self immolation

 

letting this little light

break free

 

this little liturgy train out-creating

the tunnel mine of the brain

 

paginating the running pages that think they can that think they can

 

while high above hot quiet air balloons of

wood float on pieces of the four winds

 

divesting toward reverance on

pieces of the four deaths

 

camping out in the refining

stars of the body

 

sitting with the suffering

being with the beasts

 

singing the knowledge of pain,

the fuel to heal

 

burning side-by-side with

neighbor; sister; brother; lover

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