Arrival

A tremor makes me start and gasp.

I force my breath to slow to a measured rate,

wait for it to pass.

A cold rush wants to pull me under.

Startled, I feel the tremor in my center,

straining in the half-light to predict

which track, when I buckle

hit from behind, the blast of the warning too late.

I am alone, immovable in my track,

rails shimmering to a vanishing point,

the night still, cool against my nightshirt.

From beneath it seems to come. 

I turn in time to taste

steel, one eye burning white light,

ground gravel under skin, solid shadows whoosh

measured by spacers

couplings clanking (how many?)

           

I lie like a runner's shadow struck down,

taste the spittle salt at the edges of my mouth,

gravel ground into my cheek like so many tattoos.

Stiff, I stand under the swell of my belly. 

It is coming again.

           

            From the backseat peering past the hood

            of our dark green Ford station wagon

            past the barriers of shifting light,

            we measured them against an upright--           

            lamppost or telephone pole--

            counting the cars like mom said to.

            Mom, with her smooth white neck

and familiar knotted bun,

            ever vigilant in her quest to distract us.

            Count the cars as they pass     

            and they're soon gone.

Calling on the memory of elusive techniques:

Conditioned controlled breaths.

Visualize the force.  Let it hit.

I go under.  Skull and back thud on ties.

Pine tar resin greases my wheat-white hair.

Groaning metal passes over my face

(count the cars)

close enough to touch if I could raise a hand.

They jangle off into darkness.

I shut my eyes and look hard

anticipating that blind lamp sure to appear,

brace myself, resist the force,

will to stop steel with flesh and bone. 

I panic exposed, am crushed. 

Above, a street light winking in the spaces

counts the cars.

I lie in this bed trying to find my voice,

call to David that I can't do it by myself anymore.

I am looking into his face

between speeding wheels,

fighting to hear him above

the surge of audible shadow,

savoring his touch, cool amidst iron hot rails.

Armed with watch and water he is offering

liquid between ever-lengthening onslaughts increasing in frequency. 

He cannot see the phantom flier

but knows its low wail comes through my mouth.

He is using the second hand

to count the cars.

I move from this bed along the track,

sometimes inches, sometimes miles, ever ahead.

I call for mercy, am commended

for my involuntary progress.

When I raise my head, a platform is in sight, inconceivable.

The light softens, the engine slows,

comes to rest at my heels, humming.

I sleep.

Spectators hover above my broken body, echo:

What peace. . . so beautiful. . . .

I wake to the nudge of cold steel,

assume a runner's stance

and sprint toward the station, blown forward

by the charge of the engine behind.

I am overtaken as I reach the platform.

I feel my body open

and rise to greet her

as she steps off the train.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 10/11/2011