by Sara Daniels
I dream of a train trundling into blueness,
and across the tracks, I see my childhood dressed in white.
She wears a nightgown, blood seeping down her front
until it pools, cool and dark, on the pavement.
I think I will board without her.
I think I will go somewhere unbloodied,
somewhere sunflowers bloom without seeds
and the wind blows without direction.
I think I will go where only one of me exists—
that I will let the train door slide shut to sever us,
and I will only feel the ache of it
until the blueness swallows her,
until I close my eyes and let the simple gravity of time and space
convince my body that it’s moving
backwards, forwards, all at once.