“. . . and one train is on top
of the other train.”
—DC Metro report, June 22, 2009
It happened in a speed of whistles,
when the brakes gave out
and the driver couldn’t force
the screech to warn of impact
before the thrust of a coupling
never meant to be,
fast and sudden mounting,
and bloody bodies squirmed
desperate to find an opening
through steel and broken glass,
to plunge calamity into comfort
of a fecund summer, suburban green,
where insects flew one atop the other,
dragon flies in flagrante—
over wildflowers along the tracks
that knifed a route down into town,
and in time went underground.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
See all items about Anne Harding Woodworth