There is no shame in typographical errors, in misreading the underscored lines surrounded by blank margins. Everyone knows there is no blame in your position buckled behind the wheel, stopped at the railroad crossing lights. The road brought you here. Do not be startled to see your name trussle past in graffiti scrolls, your history flow by in boxcar visions, biographic flashes - crooked candles plunged in white icing, a wish in grey wisps, the smack-sting of finger lines left to cool, revert to the color of soft skin, whispered flesh grasped in spasms, gut-punch certainty - your body can be mortgaged, blood spurts in vermillion, a glistening wrist, musty-salt mucus on lips, the first kiss of a newborn forehead Trust glints in rusty corners. Everyone now sees how a windpipe crushed beneath a lover’s fingers retains dimpled impressions, gasps of dominance, of occupation. A train whistle carries on the wind. A clouded sky, full of everyone. For your own good you take your medications, chant the therapeutic rhymes taught by shamans. Dislodge your solar plexus by increments, loosen the fusion of cranial bones, this freight, by vibration. Wait to wave at the end of the train.
Crystal Snoddon is a Canadian artist and writer nominated for Best of the Net 2017. Recent and forthcoming publications include Figroot Press, i am not a silent poet, Bending Genres, Poets Reading the News, among others.