The Train

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when the walls begin to shake 

i feel myself brace 

for what i know is coming—


4 deafening blasts

each lasting a count of six

sometimes more but rarely less


and though i am buffered

somewhat

by plankboard and plaster 

i curse the men 

who invented such a boorish machine


So violating and brash in its design

indelicate and uncaring of its surroundings

the epitome of masculine presumption


and i wonder—

how do the birds endure?

(and why did god make humans)


how do their tiny, feathered bodies 

stay nested in the trees, 

sing every morning

and find their way home

above the din, black smoke 

and tremor?


i’m driven by violent imaginings of revenge— 

a small bomb left on the tracks 

a viper placed in the engineer’s cab

a riot of insomniacs, veterans, and dogs wearing thundershirts


But then, 


what of the birds

the viper 

the engineer’s children

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Isabelle Guzman holds a BFA from the College of Charleston, and is currently published in both Tilted House and Infection House. She still lives in that basement on Bayou Saint John but now has a dining room table that ties the room together nicely.