After night's black abandoned truck— morning is locked down tight, and the sky's brewing up some trouble. So far at the bottom of this moment, she could fall off. Coat hem. A pair of sultry shoes. She is five. Small for her age. Meeting her father for the first time. Union Station. Denver. Behind the harsh horizon beyond the tracks, a dark wildness over the swing set, brick yard, development. Little nowhere, where Did you come from? The train roams through the gone and vanquished, some pale, soft voice talking. Spooks. Phantoms. He is the unclosed cut of her. Find the missing dark scythe. Find the jawbone of an ass. Dead wood, cemetery, oil vat shooed away—harried— by the train's advance. First this, then that, then a thrush's three notes happen all at once at once at once and a figure in a red hat. Copyright © 2016 Lynn Emanuel. Used with permission of the author. |
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