timothy daniel welch

Below gust balconies

Her mind uncurls from dream currents,

dark blue feathers swirling below roots of dew,

sky graying as seven crows rise

first in the shape of the oak

they’ll return to at dusk.

Sitting on the back porch,

she re-examines her dream

of faces with postcard smiles

strobing by, then the train pulling

a dark vein and a face bracketed

between boxcars doors, the parsecs

layered in those eyes sweeping over rails,

creosote ties and gravel. Rain’s blue brooms gust

swept into exhaust plumes, she inhales caffeine steam,

preparing for another work-day as city dawn

ladles thin soup into the mouths of illusions,

white flags cresting out on the graying river.

Standing at the white-slatted railing, she lifts

a hand, palm up, to taste the rain and feels

it running cold under her sleeve.

Refugee

She huddles into a seat

on an American city bus, fire

scars on her Mayan face,

her neck, she clasps

her hands

in her lap,

the brown hands that wove

sandals for children's feet?

I don't know,

I close the doors

and check my mirrors

for in-coming traffic.

I do know.

I pull at the wheel

with tanned brown hands

and dust rises in the hot yellow

light of July.

Above mountains far south of here,

an army helicopter searches

for caves to rocket.

laura lehew