A Confession Between Lambert and Lansdowne Station

Bare-branched & scratching the wind,
the oaks clear their throats on the other side

of the safety glass. Cradled in this cheap plastic,
I feel small enough for trying to remember you

touching your way through the old kitchen, the tug
of your hair, the black letters of your letters.

A woman nearby, who looks like a sitcom mother,
Skypes her sister & waits patiently as we pass

through the tunnel after the Delmar stop, carrying
a gray blade of faith that the world won’t forget us

in the dark between each mouth. On the other side,
a siege of herons breaks from the cattails,

& when they’re far enough away, it’s like they were never
here. The world becomes so still at thirty miles an hour.

I know I’ll remember this moment from some point
in the future, when the rolling hills of this dying

golf course look beautiful & new again, a remembering
like turning back as you leave to find your friends laughing

as much without you as they were with you.
I’ll try to forget the sound of the stone ballast disappearing

beneath the train & how I knew I couldn’t get any closer
to losing you without actually losing you.