JUSTINE BEREZINTSEV

Priority to Cargo

Until derailment,

a train is just a train. A hollowed out carcass 
taxidermied to pass as an ark fitting four hundred estranged
animals bereft of destination even in the direction of travel.

It lurches along a well-trimmed line, collateral worse 
than a snow plow in summer, and hums a rhythmic 
lullaby to put soul to sleep. I almost fell asleep.  

Then a grackle called and reminded me of you. It perched
as I’ve perched on a wooden pillar, iridescent as ocean 
bottoms, and I could swear it turned a pearl toward me.

The train had slowed for reasons that speakers muffled
but my eardrums beat only to the tune of that creature, there,
alone and proud, just out of reach from my fast heating 

fingertips. Its cries could not breach the safety glass: that 
was reserved for my brass knuckles in case the electricity
coursing through my limbs fried my own wax wings. Still,

I knew its croak by heart, I’d heard it take the shape of my
name in habitats familiar and not—say your bedroom. I’d felt

it crack the sky and leave me thunderless. Once I thought it uttered


love through gutturals, though the bird flew away so fast, 



it must have been the power lines that buzzed 




the vow.