Train

I was freed and reunited with my mother-- who,

like a stroke victim, did not grasp the immensity

of what i'd been through. No more chamomile

feelings, or else it was chamomile all the time.

No in between. No mother slipping away slowly.

I'd had my head out the window of a train

passing through a tunnel. Nearly decapitated.

I should never have had my own head

out the window, but I have this thing with wind

and locomotion. This app on my phone reminds

me to stick my head out the window every time

it's 11:11.

Every now and then I have to move. The pain

is a ball that rolls towards me, forever. Deer sit

in the periphery like unmoved chess pieces

not covered in dust, but slick as seals.

My ballerina self has light on her face which is

looking up to the moon. She is transparent, lace

in her lungs-- something fibrous: an illness which

looks like snowflakes covering the seen

of a wreck.