Jennifer K. Sweeney



What Call
                          

My bedroom was the only one in our house
that faced East. Overspilling. Absurdly pink.
I liked night best because I knew it would come.
From the window I listened to the second story
of elm trees rustling, wordless, oceanlike.
So much of what has soothed me has not been human.
I drank in the sound,
fantasized about love and death
until the 11 o’ clock
freight train rumbled along the edge
of town and how I let myself drift
into that funneling.
My family claimed I made the train up
along with other memories no one had.
Hard to know still, which world
is more real, doubt or beauty?
I had to go with what came every night
what call fogged through the trees
to tell me to keep going,
that train that only now after retrieving something
from my closet late at night, 
did my father agree was real.




© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review