Kinky Hair

In the Lynchburg train station, I contemplate
the coffee machine—almost
buy a cup with sugar
and “whitener,” but I’m not sure
enough I’ll get cream
and not bleach. It’s the kind of place
with an elevator mostly for show,
black iron stairs spiderclimbing
the bricks outside. A New York fireman enters,
and I try to invent a reason
for him to be here. I’d offer him a hand
with his bulky gear—helmet and boots—
but that probably isn’t allowed.
A young woman on the platform at dawn,
kinky haired, her skin espresso,
eyes shimmering.
Our train hisses out the station
along sandpapered sidewalks
where bikes and skateboards lay
abandoned for the blood-
magic of roadside carnage.
Too big for a rabbit’s corpse, a groundhog’s. God
forbid it be the family dog—the catalyst that hurls
children into maturity.
She tells me about lying on the floor
on New Year’s Eve in Philadelphia, below the window
sills; tells me about fireworks that could be gunshots.
I offer her a cigarette,
but that probably isn’t allowed.
Out the window sailboats bob
in loose confederation, pearls hastily strung.
Rail ties stitch polished Chesapeake waters.
The train hisses. A moth, long
as the prehistoric, battles the electric
light until she snaps
it up in her shawl, releases it
at the next station while everyone applauds,
kinky haired, her skin espresso—
cream, no bleach.

after Nâzim Hikmet’s “Flaxen Hair”