Springfield

    A blizzard rustles, softly curtains each window,
    But rails embedded in snow invisibly guide
    Our rattling chain of coaches. With motion
    Of her own, my giggling daughter animates
    Her seat, defying the rumble of colossal wheels
    In unison, all serious conversations.
    I quell her with snacks and patter.

    Swaying

    Towards Boston, we could be anywhere,
    Shadow country, a pale trance of contours
    Broken only by streaks of silver
    Southbound trains. We doze in fits, jerkwater names
    Half dreamed. By nightfall she degrades
    Into a maw of tears. I tell her the rest
    As a story, how much fun she'll have
    When we get there.

    But a frozen switch

    Farther on stifles the diesel to a wheeze
    In New Haven. We can wait until God knows when
    Or take the local, which veers west to Springfield
    And then back around. Herded across
    The platform's slush swamp, mistral-singed
    As we sift onto cars, I try to explain
    What eight more hours of eternity mean.

    60 years since those other trains, winter
    A long hush, a terminus beyond Krakow,
    Someone else's darling begging him Why
    As he echoes the uniformed "conductor,"
    Crumbs of an answer, the difference
    Whose hand steers her nape from above.

    Much later,

    We disembark for good. But memory seeks
    Connections of its own, and her small life
    Barrels on, a phantom juggernaut, shivering
    Tons; I'm just her father, a passenger,
    Powerless to make it go where it should.

     

    Skinheads

    "O my God, make them like the whirling dust;
    As stubble before the wind." Psalms 83:13

    Reaped to peach fuzz, the heavy-handed boy
    Who pushes past me in front of a bar on South Street
    Of all people, reminds me of my aunt
    Bald from cancer. Strange to feel a lump
    Of pity, to see her enormous, tired eyes
    Behind his sneer. It's a visceral response
    To a superficial resemblance, one belied
    By the twisted cross tattoo on his right forearm,
    The leather vest and jump boots. But there's no way
    To glean deeper, to search his mind like Jehovah
    With Jeremiah, to find the cachectic soul
    In need of mercy. I don't dare rub my hand
    Along the naked dome, as my aunt made me do
    For the sad novelty, laughing as she unscrolled
    Her white turban under the elm shadows
    On her porch. I find it unjust that God chose her
    To wither in place of someone who likely scribes
    Vile words on tomb stones, some with the names
    Of survivors already etched, indelible
    As commandments. A gust of wrath howls
    Inside me yet I walk away lost like a man
    Through blown dust, the angel of death hovering
    Before me, still an angel, and a helpless woman.
    She shows me him shorn like a prisoner digging
    His own grave in the winter woods, trimmed
    To humiliate and prevent escape. What one does,
    One does to oneself. I'm like that Polish farmer
    Taught all Jews have horns, reduced to fear
    And heritage when he finds a rare runaway
    In the fields near Krakow, his first impulse
    To turn him in or shoot him. Who saves who?
    Compassion, if he has it, makes him squirm,
    Unthinkable as the atrocity that demands it.

     




    Bio Note

      David Moolten's first book, Plums & Ashes, won the Samuel French Morse Poetry Prize and was published in 1994 by Northeastern University Press. His poems have appeared in Poetry, Southern Review, New England Review, and Sewanee Review among others.


    Contents

     



     David

     Moolten