Historical Poem by Anique Sara Taylor
France 1943.
We huddle, freeze-framed
stems into embankments next
to railroad tracks that promise life.
Aligned with the iron churn
and clank of a German ammunition
train, we sprint beside it, leap to boxcar
rungs, clutch side ladder, clamber
to the top where we regroup. SS soldiers
travel in tandem below us in posh troop cars.
My shoe slips
off the metal crossbar.
One step.
One. Missed. Rung.
I flutter from the thread
of my wrist. Feet thrash, almost
slam against the frozen planet that spins
inches away from my tiny bones. Afraid roots
hungry for blood will try to pull me back into the earth.
They gather on boxcar
roof as the cars accelerate. Is
someone missing? I cling, alive still in
this hollow second, before I splinter into the void.
His shadow silhouetted against indigo sky
hurtles train top to train top, searching for me.
He hollers down. The first body, an anchor, fastens
himself to boxcar roof, grabs onto the next. The third locks
legs. His opening spine unfolds upside down, lowering torso.
Arms stretch a human link that reaches for the disappearing thread
of me, that hugs the speeding train’s side wall, yellow heat of velocity —
until his clutch of stone.
Sinews of his hands wrestle
my ghost back into a wish for life.
