Notes From a Journey

We died during a train wreck
outside a winter village,
the word Mary on our tongues.

The error of pillage and penance
is that none is enough
to milk our burdens, our oily violets.

Apples. It was apples our mothers
placed in our pale hands, and smoked ham sticks.
Oranges did not exist then.

We had heard of oranges in our classes
as we had heard of elegy and Cincinnati.
Our mothers calmly, terrified, kissed us.

On the platform, we were strange
creatures guarding giant cases
containing our books and pants.

We boarded as our belongings
were loaded by grown men.
Pull and puff went the carriage.

The rest goes crack, goes under.
A young nun points to beads.
Suddenly there is darkness, cold water,
and far inside, the thought of beds.

Copyright © 2007 David Krump All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission