This train ride from Warsaw
to Wloclawek is perfect.
Mother's old albums were right;
all shades of sepia,
with black and white
and gray, passing
and the perfect time of year
early in December
fields, orchards and gardens
on their way to freezing solid.
A few snowflakes come on cue,
and so too the old woman
slowly, slowly up her slope,
a long black dress, a gray shawl
and headscarf for the Baltic
wind and cold. This compartment
is First Class, and my deep, soft seat
is burgundy. I'm done with the window.
For now, to read or even ease
my footrest out and sleep
until Wloclawekgone to ashes
and nameless graves, those
she named, I never knew.
-
Issue 53
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems
by Tess Gallagher
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems