ERIN LYNDAL MARTIN
Jumping turnstiles, we had nothing to lose.
The subway was dead. People went there
for the thrill of waiting. You had this stub
as ratty as those, too white Keds I used to have. I called
them passenger shoes, so you held onto the railing
and you said passenger train. We looked at pictures.
You pointed at one and said, “that right there is how my hair used to look.”
I was coming down with a cold. I wanted to lie down
on a bench. The paint was suspicious if not wet. I could feel
blood pouring down my nose. Then I said, “pretend I’m your baby”
or “let’s find shapes in the clouds.”
A car pulled up outside. Pulled up to somewhere
and settled itself into a parking place. I heard diagonal yellow lines.
I said you were my lucky number, and then I lay down
on the long-abandoned tracks. I was dead, but not in the usual way.
Then I got back up. I listed synonyms for lace a little while. Battenburg,
eyelet. Perforated linen, Irish linen, wedding dress, veil—
“Are you okay?” You asked. Or didn’t. All this time you
"Geez, I had a dream where you could shoot a gun and I could bleed,
what will it take to satisfy you?" I will tell you now. I want to make
snow angels out of the cold hard steel. I want trains to keep running. I want to go somewhere.