I want to tell you natural facts. Sister
Rosetta, full-throated
at Wilbraham Road. Calloused
fingers working her guitar like a loom
shuttling the next number’s
caterwaul. Audience of passengers
waiting across from her. Sing us a song
they said and she did
and pretty good for a woman.
Like a man shouting out the elements
coloring a sky opened
by fireworks—Magnesium! (white)
Calcium! (orange)—I don’t mind
spilling these beans. At the table
I’d pull the planchette to Yes, invisibly
insatiable. Even writing you from the disused
station, I am hunting for
a likeness. The platforms once bore us
where we yearned to move next
and quickly. The tracks have gone soft
with green and rot. Where to, Sister?
