James Dean escorts his mother’s coffin
The rocking of the train as it crosses the country
lulls you as the land you know peels away
into the past. You are nine. Your small face
echoes on the polished surface of her coffin.
Your father has sent you away.
Each stop you check your tender cargo
is not yet lost. You caress the smooth wood,
warm from the heat of strangers’ breathing.
The world speeds past, begins to blur to nothing.
You will always remember these moments.
She taught you the wishing game. You cradle
the snipped lock of her hair and play it alone.
You pretend to keep faith in the possible
but cannot accept this new cargo’s silence.
Something inside you is peeling away.
You wonder how fine handles carry such weight.
Placing your hands on the cold brass you grasp
the frailty of the thin plane between you.
Somewhere within you a small cargo shifts.
Some things take a lifetime to travel past.
Orbis no. 141, Summer 2007
