Translating the Latest Polls Man enters the train bright as an heirloom apple, a cinnamon pie, a cornucopia of a face. He wants to tell his story, to connect the loose ends of life lived elsewhere in a country with its own, unique calculus (derivatives and simultaneous rates of change, changing with respect to multiple variables). He carries his burden, a loaf of bread, and a solid aura. I catch a few words— ningún, nadie, todos perdidos, before the train on its repeating loop sways into the tunnel, our points of contact erased — the cruelties of autumn, another election season. In the darkness he turns a deep juniper blue while beneath him, the earth holds its breath. — The last, italicized line is from “My Brother The Artist, At Seven” by Philip Levine.
S.B. Merrow lives in Baltimore, where she wanders by foot and bicycle, often finding poems in the process. She also repairs and restores concert flutes for professional musicians. She is the author of a chapbook, Unpacking the China (QuillsEdge Press, 2016), and a full-length poetry collection, Everyone A Bell (Kelsay Books, 2020).