Wednesday, August 29, 2007

train of thought

On your best day we got the call that doesn't honor bed time protocol.
I handed your twin to Teta, said you were not well, and left in my frayed pajamas.

I was between two train tracks, the ground started to rumble beneath me.
We drove to the hospital, that place of avalanches, running red lights and chanting
It can't end this way.

We ran to you, the place where you exited my body a horizontal burn radiating
Men compressing your chest and nurses calling out the numbers read on your blood
The tea leaves of your X-ray

Chaos as the rumble grew louder, trains coming in on either side of me
Your father paced outside of your room and I stared dumbly at the scene of your
death unfolding

I don't think we can get her back, your surgeon said.
in the moment that the trains passed me simultaneously
Pulling in opposite directions at the center, not holding.

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