A freight train’s low moan, or a muted horn’s high elision, I
Think of Nina Simone’s measures, or Robert Johnson’s wail, never
Fails to break the heart into sharps like the nails they use
To hammer into Christ’s palms—this is despair
That arrives—not my own—down in my bones since
The world’s lament was written long before my mother gave it
The un-thorned crown of my bloody head. & what really
Did we expect from this hard labor—isn’t
Every step we take toward our departure, mine
& yours, we step toward the last station & only
Our names are on a list, not by the Lord but given
By the bosses & the cops—as the train rolls on to
The crematorium, reach out your hand & say that too is me:
That man camped along the rails, or that woman begging for
Change. Empty all you have, & what she gives, stash it safe
In your chest, that despair like a secret for your Sister’s keeping.
