Transatlantic
The yellow tail
of a train
trailing sulphur
split the track
in two.
I have come
from visiting
my brother,
disease piled
snug in him
like cargo
in a transatlantic
hold.
At the edge
of my vision
a switch
where the train
paused a moment,
powder
pyramiding
beneath it.
“You’re going
to make it,” I’d said,
and whatever
that meant,
I’d meant it.
First published in The Fiddlehead (Summer 2012).