In the warm glow of my reading lamp, together
with Mariette as she takes her vows at the holy
cloister in Upstate New York, I hear the foghorn
cries of a train in the early hours of morning.
The track is roughly a mile south and its whistle
is frozen in place, wailing like a dying animal
in shapeless dark. I imagine a car stalled at a
crossing or switchman holding a lantern as he
changes course at the turnout or, still being the boy
galloping ’round the living room, two-thousand
head of ghostly longhorn on the Goodnight-Loving
Trail, flooding past the engineer who waits as
hooves trample ballast, sleeper, and rail spark to pulp.
I close the window, catching the faint hint of cherry
blossom, and now, back among the sisters, Mariette
performs the Litany of Loreto in amity with a dozen
pink and white weightless chaplets piled high for
Christ’s newest bride.
Evening Panoply 