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| No.
3 |
Fall 2002
|
March river, March train
Jill Khoury
Gnarled sky, soiled white,
all winter it gathers
waiting for March.
At the intersection
of the Ohio River
and the West End Bridge,
a gray glass building
shoulders itself
against this season of brooding,
of hoarding our losses.
Its faces trap
the slender light,
void its goodness.
Sliding along the wall
is my reflection,
blurry and swollen. I reach
toward my other self.
This is how the dead try
and fail to touch the living,
with the scrim
of their dissolving bodies.
Boxcars crawl along the tracks
by the river. With the tug's
broad side snugged against it,
a barge paces the train. Hail
sparkles like wet coins,
flashes in the spaces between
the passing cars, lines the barge's
rusty floor. The weather is a prize.
Who can catch the most?
Who will ride it the farthest?
I put my back to the train
and place my hand
on the hand behind the glass.
I choose you again.
I choose you despite our differences.
I choose you with your eyes
small and cold as unripe plums,
with your hair all
in your face, a sullen
puddle of crows.
In a week, maybe two
the sun will lazily open
and cast out the panic
in our chests.
It will warm the sky to water,
and unbind
our bowing shoulders.
Even in the time
I have looked at you,
the hail has softened
into snow.
Copyright 2002, Jill Khoury nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing
Program
at the University of Pittsburgh's English
Department.