I cannot unwrite what has been told by history.
Moving forward along the Hudson,
in the second to last car,
I think about my grandfather.

His tenement on East 51st was evacuated
when the U.N. was being built.
My roommate works there now.
She speaks French in our living room sometimes,
and we scowl, when we aren’t falling in love
with the sounds of her.

The brick wall rises up alongside the window,
blocking out the river for a while.
I am waiting for something that has not come.

I am learning to unlove the almost
in a thousand lovers, and trying to keep my balance
when the train lurches forward.

It is Friday and the sun is still making the sky
a dull grey, but it should be dusk, I think.
This morning in the kitchen, over Polachinkas
and coffee, I wondered how my parents are still
married after thirty years. I cannot unwrite the

Not everything that is true is the whole truth,
I said, later, over a second cup of coffee in Hudson,
while the fountain kept feeding itself the same water.

We unstitch each other, one story at a time,
and wait for the right moment for things to fall apart.
The rhinecliff bridge is shadowing the train car,
but the sun pushes through a cloud over the mountain.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry, travel and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Passenger.

  1. Nicholas Gagnier says:

    Love it.

  2. Brigitte Winston says:

    “waiting for something that has not come”
    Its on its way! thanks for the inspiration.

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