The Crossing

The Crossing

Kneeling backwards on the maroon

horsehair sofa, hard as a church pew

and stinking of Grandpa’s cigars,

the girl rests her hands lightly

on the arched spine, her bare knees

stippled by the stiff cushion.

Immersed in the "Wreck of the Ole ‘97 Train"

frozen inside the burl oak frame.

The wagon rushing the crossing, the split rail,

the lurching locomotive, the rearing horse.

The last pages of the story

missing.

She studies the signs. The hat in midair,

the girl’s bare feet,

the horse’s white teeth,

the buckling black smoke,

and the two crosses --

the broken tie under the unhitched rail 

and the leaning telephone pole.

The second hand on the Seth Thomas clock

stops at 5:54 while she gallops

through spawning fields of . . .

What if the reins break?

What if the horse bolts?

What if the engineer can’t clear the train?

Worlds of time for questions.

Is he falling or jumping out of the cab?

Why are the yellow windows empty?

Why is the girl wearing a white dress?

All the faces, even the horse,

turned away or hidden.

She makes herself small and climbs into

the cornfield, past the rooster foot roots,

under the broken barbwire, over the catback road,

the only thing moving.

She touches the girl’s hand

thrown out to brace her fall. It is warm.

Beyond the crossing she sees

a yellow window in a white house,

a woman setting the table,

three empty chairs,

the kitchen door,

waiting.

The aroma of Grandma’s pie

rattles the frame.

Hatless man, windblown boy,

barefoot girl, white horse,

ghostly engineer, invisible passengers,

all fall into the rhubarb.