December 30.12

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For Stephan

In the quiet wake of Christ’s
celebratory birth-lights—our wound-up chimes,
canned carols—His love packed away
in boxes, yet another year. . .

We exchanged gifts the day after.
Hearty sweetbreads, thin laughter, strong tea.
Later, we rode down to the railroad tracks, shining
in light rain, the winter river rolling past.

A few old Southern boxcars parked there
years ago, rusting. Garish strokes
of graffiti mock the long retirement,
the sad and useless beauty, fading.

Your first Christmas alone.
Your wife, my daughter, chose to go on
without you. We walk the rails, together
the freight of our separate griefs, alone.

We stand and watch the river, rolling brown
and full of winter rain, a frothy tide of waves
breaking back upon itself, resisting
the dark and seaward body of the flow.

We stand before the great turbulence—
future quickly comes, passes on downstream.
The old train cars stand empty, very still.
You took a few pictures, the broken couplings.

The rain-wet shining rails
stretch out far before us—diminishing
a long slow curve, the unseen distances
saying everything we could not say.

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–Quilla