You take your seat on the train and your trip begins. Someone says something is cute and pretty, but that doesn’t cover it, not even barely. Birds flutter past the window near your face; the low, steady pulse of the track passes beneath you; your peripheral vision is filled with Fall-colored leaves. Then, it feels like your pace is quickening, but maybe it’s just the thrust of your excitement. You are a time traveler, always. The scenery is blurring by, but you make it out: structures in the distance reaching into the clouds, crowds of people gathered outside, branches bending in the wind, illuminated surfaces, provocative shadows. Your heart suddenly races; you imagine possible destinations, possible scenarios. Emotions rush as if those unknown futures are now, and melancholy always seeps in. You miss it already, whatever it will be. The sun is bright and the heat is comforting, but you’re wary of the visibility its light grants. Yet, you refuse the blues, tap your feet, turn your face to meet the humble brilliance of floral reproduction, to acknowledge the reason you can see anything at all, to behold the joy of movement, the frankness of air — never denying you the exact oxygen you require. Your mind and flesh converse, you grasp your seat; you dance with your partner, so sweet, no feet.
Jillian Brall is co-editor of the online poetry journal, Lyre Lyre, and co-curates the Earshot reading series. Her poems and artwork have appeared in The Best American Poetry Blog, Pax Americana, Connotation Press, Esque, The Tower Journal, Unshod Quills, Ping Pong Magazine, Ragazine, and others. She has a background in jazz saxophone, and loves to experiment with many artistic mediums.
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Contact Jackie Clark: jackie [at] coldfrontmag [dot] com.
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