ISSUE 4 · SPRING 2010


 

 

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Copyright © 2010

Amy Rollinson





Un Balanced

AMY ROLLINSON



Check the laces of my shoes

cut my finger nails    check

(I am clean).

Ready

but not

to go home

I forgot

to eat breakfast.


My hair lies

flat across my      cheeks

as I sit

on this train

in a carpeted-seat.

Amtrak blurring

five and a half

state(s)

of my mind,


I think

that traveling    alone

allows the self to speak

so the self

can listen again.


Tendons

in my legs

feel like dried bands

of brittle rubber.

I am dreaming


   yearning

                      to run


                         from boxcar


to boxcar   to boxcar.


Pressing cheek


into cool glass


picture window


.

.



in first class smoke

free while trees

look like struck matches

and the cables on bridges

might snap

under the weight of worry.

Closing my eyes,

head rolling

with the hips

of the track,

I picture

the scene

of “Stand by Me

where Gordie and Vern

dodge the noon train

last second

their weakened legs

tumbling into a dirt ravine.


My brain feels

as if the shutter

speed is set

to open

slowly

burning

against

the film


I imagine

the train  as two

scared boys,

jumping

                                off the track.


Colliding with earth

and my idea of the law

of perpetual motion,

makes me think


I might miss

my chance

to get home

before dark.