When you dream of catching a train
that plunges through the night
toward some destination
you never reach, how would you know
after these many years—
until reading Chetwynd’s dream book—
it’s your longing for the dead?
He warns against trains,
their trajectory of grief.
If only you had dreamed of a small house,
he says, with a red door
between mullioned windows—
your mother’s face.
You wouldn’t have fussed half the day,
kitchen to bath to the bookshelf,
chasing after the silver coach
shunted from its wheels,
and lowered into the ground.
Originally Appeared in Stone Canoe
Issue #5, 2011 (SC5 Online Edition Only)
Published by University College at Syracuse University
Editor: Robert Colley