Poem
1 min
Tracks and the River
Anita Skeen
I grew up
with them,
the tracks
and the river,
coal trains
chugging,
tugs shoving
barges,
bodies of
black rocks.
Deep whistle
in the night,
tangible as fog.
Near the end,
my mother
named a train
the saddest
sound she knew.
Bike bumps
across the ties.
Hot summer
day. Dive from
the bent-over oak.
Cold dark
water. Swim
to the light,
seam in the day.
I'm stitched
with tracks
and the river:
bone and blood,
story and song.
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