CARGO

I wish I could write to you from underwater,

the warm bath covering my ears—

one of which has three marks in the exact

shape of a triangle, my own atmosphere’s asterism.

Last night, the fire engine sirens were so loud

they drowned out even the constant bluster

of the inbound freight trains. Did I tell you,

the R. J. Corman Railroad runs 500 feet from us?

Before everything shifted and I aged into this body,

my grandparents lived above San Timoteo Canyon

where the Southern Pacific Railroad roared each scorching

California summer day. I’d watch for the trains,

howling as they came.

Manuel is in Chicago today, and we’ve both admitted

that we’re traveling with our passports now.

Reports of ICE raids and both of our bloods

are requiring new medication.

I wish we could go back to the windy dock,

drinking pink wine and talking smack.

Now, it’s gray and pitchfork.

The supermarket here is full of grass seed like spring

might actually come, but I don’t know. And you?

I heard from a friend that you’re still working on saving

words. All I’ve been working on is napping, and maybe

being kinder to others, to myself.

Just this morning, I saw seven cardinals brash and bold

as sin in a leafless tree. I let them be for a long while before

I shook the air and screwed it all up just by being alive too.

Am I braver than those birds?

Do you ever wonder what the trains carry? Aluminum ingots,

plastic, brick, corn syrup, limestone, fury, alcohol, joy.

All the world is moving, even sand from one shore to another

is being shuttled. I live my life half afraid, and half shouting

at the trains when they thunder by. This letter to you is both.