by Meg Yardley
In the beginning was the station:
metal axis of rails, streamlined
tubes of genesis, endless waiting poles
charged with smooth electricity, with potential.
Then came the rushing.
Then came the long-limbed crackling,
the snapping star-bred steel hurrying,
whorled as nightmares, interrupting
the velour-veiled night –
and that was life, that was the seed’s bursting.
A fever spread, fine as the fabric
of planets. Branched as a helix,
a throat of invocation, a copper screen.
Lace grew like moss on fingers.
Travelling began: callouses formed
on roots. The world
increased in size. The wide sky
gave out a tremolo of gardens.
And then the strength of seraphim.
The heat was a column with no sides,
it was pressure and release.
There were no more windows for yearning or praying:
one light there was,
and one creaking and grinding into the light.
MEG YARDLEY lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Rogue Agent, SWWIM, Bodega Magazine, Literary Mama, and District Lit.
Photo: “Rails” by Bruce Fingerhood