sciamachy, Alexis Ma

Alexis Ma

SCIAMACHY

—to fight a shadow

i. to break me, disturb an acre of topsoil, the very ground that shivers under April showers. no need for plow; this plot of land has yet to settle. my body has moved— will move again— for nothing.

ii. come spring cleaning, you feed the garden. you bathe the dishes, & you undress the coat rack in the mudroom. a home bundled, deep in hibernation, though ready to wake, is slow to rise, so avoid the attic—that can wait. forget restocking the fridge & most importantly, do not, & I repeat, do not traipse the hardwood floors. they groan louder than any thunder roll heard or fallen on deaf ears.

iii. when you exhaust all options: time to pop the clutch. it was a mistake, kick-starting this relic awake in the August heat— the old thing was 17 going on a hundred, a senile, cantankerous body that contested any road banked, unfinished, or winding.

she used to be something, you know?

going at the speed of light; any tickets written hit the windshield, fluttered away instantaneously; forgotten, those summer nights in which she flew.

iv. picture this: an up-&-coming city dusted white, 14 inches short of the predicted snowmageddon & still, they tell us to empty supermarket shelves, to take stock in blankets & bonfires. they tell us to head south before a 19-car pileup jams the interstate.

they tell me to run. before the snow sticks to the ground, they tell me to chase any train. as long as it takes me out.

yet, here I am, toeing the precipice where station platform surrenders to humming track. the last train leaving town blows past; slows. rests a while. long enough for snow to powder passenger window panes.

only when the engine yawns awake, groggy but on the move, do I wave my arms & sprint after it headfirst.

sluggish pace, though exhausted the train may be, I cannot bring myself to run faster.