My aunt was still young when the train shuddered—
wheels skidding into early graves, the shriek
of broken gears. A hazy elegy,
then three. That moment, muted
and comatose—its seed still asleep
under her tongue, still born
in salted earth, beneath the headstone
of a tiring before and a bouquet
of tired after—hopelessly pregnant
with the heartbeat of the faceless,
the train christened
in warm blood, unmoving.
old now, thinks only of trains, their spines
convulsing in the moonlight. The night always
a little brighter—burning, burning, burning.