Trip Taken by Rail
There were too many trains this summer
so I didn’t get much sleep. They came rattling
through my teeth and dreams. They came
singing like mechanical whales in the distance
and I stopped for the flashing red lights and pressed
my hands against the gate arm and pressed
my face into the air they dragged with them. I danced
and danced to the ding-ding-ding. I put my ear to the rail
and watched death rocket toward me, its huge hungry mouth
black and toothless. I bought tickets and swallowed
my own flaking skin to hide my trail. I wore a hat to stop
the wind-tangles from falling out of my hair. I lived off
stored body fat and memories of my mother
who died. Her hands, always so soft. I chewed the corners off
my tickets and pasted them all in my notebook so I
would never ever forget that there was a time
when I went rambling off implacably the way
a train never goes backward except
sometimes when it does, creeping back
and never the same when it returns
and now I listen in my sleep for trains. I shake
side-to-side on my railing, grip the headboard, climb
the stair, wail just to hear my voice above the whistle,
just to remind myself I’m there.
Virginia Thomas holds an MFA in Poetry from Indiana University in Bloomington, where she still lives, writes, and occasionally teaches writing. She is currently seeking a publisher for her full collection of poems about grief, social strictures, werewolves, and the perceived monstrosity of teen girl bodies. Her work has appeared in [PANK], Hobart, and some other journals.
