Member Poem

Jane Sellman
 
Her father
rubbing away breath fog
saw through smeared train windows
piles of rubble, smokin’ light
 
the train
 
scrimmed the burnt ends of the city
two minutes or maybe three
a flea’s eyeblink in a century
He said they
American GIs
stared from their train windows
like country bumpkins seeing a big city for the first time
 
Silent
against the shapes burned onto chunks of wall
crunchy piles they realized were bones
genderless figures clothed in burnt patches of clothing
and skin
 
Along the tracks
the clack was the only sound,
but it sufficed to block
the screams
 
the train moved
but not quickly enough.
 
dangerously slithered gamma nearby
and my father
held his breath
waiting for the train to clear the limits
of mushroom rubble and revenge.