My mother said
if you walk seven miles
on a railroad track without falling off
the first man you meet, you’ll marry
instead, I found you
curled in a sleeping bag
beneath a growth of sycamores
two hundred feet
from the Aberdeen line
heart worn clean through
I should have ran
broke my lungs in half
skipped those rails
should have tasted the damage
on your tongue
the strawberry chew
tucked in your sweet, sweet gums
but damn, if the sunlight didn’t
freckle your lashes
like diamond dust
like baby mantra
grabbing deep down
to my womb
your hands opened
palms routed and milled
arcs broken and branched
pulling me in,
wrapping me around each finger
until I slept through my dreams
I cried for you, did you know
even before
you stepped in front of the 2:30 to Charlotte,
even before
I had a chance to tell your fortune
Writing 