
ISSUE 4
Maria Provenzano
Train Poem I
“It is a federal offense to tamper
with or remove emergency equipment
when no emergency exists”
—notice posted in NJ Transit train car
I don’t want to resist the soft animal of myself
any longer. I try to remember—I am more
than this body and its animal fears. The cats
have found today’s sharp patch of sunlight.
The gray one on the tree stump, warm-blooded
sentinel, grooms itself. The light only dresses
the trees in such gauzy skirts at this precise moment
of morning. I am safe here. I’d like to return
to the normal stressors—unsure of the correct
train platform, or where to find parking in the city.
I am just a small animal, after all. Instinct
hasn’t caught up with technology just yet. And so
the deer, soft eyes, humming heart, will stand,
magnificently still, in the middle of a track
newer than her heritage in these woods, will stand
on this cool concoction of wood and metal, still
as stone, confront the oncoming brightness and siren
with her full face, cells dividing, without moving a muscle
Train Poem II
The backyard that opens toward the tracks by the Hammonton station is home to a colony of cats. Different colors, orange, white, brown spots. Oh, and the little gray one. You have to look closely to see them. Sometimes a small gray cloud moves against the grass and I wonder how did you make it past all that sunshine to exist here with us?
*
Along the tracks, mimosa trees in bloom. As summer diminishes, their fanned pink blossoms fade to sepia.
*
When the doctors say you may need surgery again, I want to say no.
*
I want to ask, What do you do with a box
too heavy
to carry?
*
Have I told you about the cat yard? There’s a cat house, and shade from the mimosa trees.
*
Like flowers, trains retreat
and emerge
again. That’s life, I suppose –
stopping, rushing forward, going
backward along the same tracks
*
What do you do with a box too heavy for you to carry?
(Put it down.)
There’s no place.
(Give it to someone else.)
There’s no person.
(Drop it)
I can’t I can’t I
can’t
*
I dream the box is full
of feathers. It was only
pretending to be heavy.
I dream the box is a bird.
It unfurls its wings and lifts
impossibly from my fingers.
*
Earth shifts invisibly, always. Below our feet,
a deep belly of soil and rock, churning. Above, the tracks, the train.
This illusion of our choice
in movement.
*
I dream I am a bird
I am a bird I am
a bird
*
What do you do with a box
too heavy for you
to carry? What do you do
with a box
but open it?
Maria Provenzano is a poet based in southern New Jersey. She writes about nature and identity and her work can be found or is forthcoming in Nimrod International Journal, Sonora Review, The Eco Justice Project, Wild Roof Journal, and elsewhere. She is a recent graduate of Randolph College’s MFA Program where she served as a poetry editor for Revolute Literary Magazine.