Depot
I have no language but what I learned from shy-bred women
whose whispers seem all at once
rooted in myself
and in a tongue so alien that I can't decipher their warnings.
I have no heritage beyond what I carry in my left hand.
All of my promise is shackled to the platform railing.
The train carries my mothers away,
trailing smoke and cinders.
I wish I could crawl between the rails
to search for clinkers in the gravel
the way my grandmothers did before the trains
all became diesels and their songs
changed away from minor keys.
Published on The Laundry Line August 12, 2025.
