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We felt them first. Fingers pressed to the rails,
a dull rumble filled our hands and hummed into
our arms before the cone of light, the great clatter
of metal against metal. Trestled high, above the
bridge on Grand Avenue, we knew those tracks
went on forever, between trees that lined the ties
like stations of the cross. The hill was forbidden but
holy, thick with clover, ripe with berries in spring.
The year I was nine, an April blizzard swept the
sky and we went to the trains in the dark. The wires
strummed into sparks, the rails were a dazzle of
shadows. Our faces – ghosts of our selves – reflected
in every train car window, lines of breath etched in
passing glass. Above us, chimney smoke hung like
smears of candle grease among the clouds.
We were grubby and poor, but we believed. We said
our prayers, ate fish on Fridays, and never rode
those trains. We could only kneel in something like
wonder, something like praise, and wait for the
tracks’ reverent shudder. The memory is a gauze
engine that time blows through and keeps me small.
This poem first appeared in the Paterson Literary Review (#36).
Used here with the author's permission.
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Adele Kenny, an animal lover (especially dogs, and especially Yorkshire terriers), is the author of 25 books (poetry and nonfiction). A former creative writing professor, and twice a Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival Poet, she is founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series and poetry editor of Tiferet Journal. The recipient of Kean University’s Distinguished Alumni Award, NJ State Arts Council poetry fellowships, and other awards,a first place Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award, and others, her current poems (often in prose poem form) focus on the ways in which the interior life intersects with the outside world. Learn more about her at www.adelekenny.com.
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jtmilford:
Beautiful nostalgia poem about childhood. Thanks
Posted 10/28/2014 08:02 PM
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penhart:
Have always loved this poem, Adele. Ah, childhood---great details!Congratulations and thanks to YDP for selecting it!
Posted 10/28/2014 09:02 AM
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Larry Schug:
There is nothing like a train. I'll wait at a crossing, never frustrated by the delay, happily engaged in the sound and sight of a passing train. I could go on and on. This poem is right on on so many levels. I feel like it was written especially for me. Thank you, Adele
Posted 10/28/2014 08:05 AM
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paula:
Wonderful tone; wonderful language. Thanks!
Posted 10/28/2014 06:39 AM
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