A mother has a soul.
A soul needs
to walk uninterrupted down the train
and through each car,
emerging alone at the balcony
of the last car, steel shrieking,
black night opening
suddenly like a blade
or black parachute, sucking loose hats, change,
dust, into it,
divulging nothing. A soul
It practices death and rebirth. Its hair
then sheds; its love fills, then empties;
it dies absolutely
to the ground, but a root persists; or,
even roots wither
in drought, but a seed-case
dropping one seed.
A door slides open. White bones
turn, lightened & expressionless,
to re-enter the last car.
About the Poet
Anna Laura Reeve is a poet living in East Tennessee with her husband, daughter, and heirloom vegetable & native plant gardens. She’s working on her first poetry collection. Previous work of hers has appeared or is forthcoming in The Trumpeter, The Racket, Appalachia Bare, Cutthroat, Fourteen Hills, and others. Read more: www.annalaurareeve.com