December 7, 2011

The Iron Horses of Geneva by Justin Robinson

Mother told me souls 
are prayers with feet that
spark the walk through dark.

Her reflection appears in the bus
window, where bodies gather in 
rows, telling stories of past lives.  

She said I'd turn silver-haired,
shelter a bird caged inside my chest;
said talking only shortens breath. 

That the fingers closing my eyes 
would stitch my cells across the sky.

But nothing of the sirens, the engines 
puffing steam, or watching myself rolling 
off the street and into a lone room, coughing, 
unwilling to leave her blurred at the bedside.

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