by B.A. Brittingham
Leaving the Desert
Through the trusses of the rail-bridge, wind
makes an inconsolable sound, like pain,
like the misery of everyone’s worst
nightmares, like a burning desert of bleached
skulls from all Georgia O’Keeffe paintings, hung
in a gallery with adobe walls
of mint and blue, the ceiling painted black,
punctured with many tiny dots of stars.
A troubled stillness fills the empty streets,
like a camera with no film, still clicking
shot after shot of a park, the benches
splintered and warped, the lake ripe with mildew—
the scent in this heat crinkles her forehead,
no wonder there are no ducks, no children,
no life other than ancient pennies with
older wishes that stayed on the bottom
and never came true. She is so tired.
Even the wisteria doesn’t solve
her sadness. She feels drained by the trappings
of this life. Of his life. There does remain
a tenderness between them but it is
rocky, uncertain, like a night bird who
doesn’t want to sing at all anymore,
and doesn’t know why—that is how she feels.
She wants to leave but the time is all wrong.
She wants to drink but the time is all wrong.
She wants to disappear on the night train,
the steady sound of chugging getting loud
as they both calmly approach the station.
She got a map, almost bought a ticket,
her freedom just a few train stops away.
Tobi Alfier is a multiple Pushcart nominee and multiple Best of the Net nominee. Slices of Alice & Other Character Studies was published by Cholla Needles Press. Symmetry: earth and sky was just published by Main Street Rag. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).
Formerly of New York City and South Florida, B.A. Brittingham is currently a resident of Southwestern Michigan, as well as a writer with an interest in photography. Images and words share diverse yet remarkable ways of telling the world’s stories. Brittingham’s photos have appeared in The Critical Pass Review and the Center For Bioethics & Humanities Journal.