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s e c u r i t y
b r e a c h
Under the El Tracks By Leonard Kress What I so clearly remember From the years we lived beneath the el tracks, Or just blocks from them, were the freezing Waits for the train and the hopelessly long Walks through the neighborhoods—Harrowgate, Torresdale, Fishtown, the bums and crosswalk prophets We’d encounter. Always the same: what will it profit A man, if he gains the whole world? I remembered Meeting one preaching outside the shut gate Of a half-demolished art-deco theatre. He tracked Our arrival, our baby strolled deep in her long Afternoon nap, questioned our wisdom—letting her freeze Like this. My wife with her camera busily freezing The twisted steel beams, drooping finials, scenes a prophet Might relish, beads of gilt debris melted in the long History of midnight fires, crack, and rats. What we won’t remember In the rush to rebuild. This was the place beneath the tracks Where prostitutes sheltered all winter, their gateWay to cruising cars, one by one, with that skirt-hiking gait, Raising 5 or 10 fingers, like figures in an ancient Chaldean frieze. Everyone takes them in: walkers, drivers, passengers on trackLess trolleys—you might wonder if they’re the harlots the prophet Ezekiel railed against: Oholah and Oholibah as they remember Their Egyptian lovers, whose members were as long As those of horses, those sisters who continued to long For the orgies of their youth, before the city shut its gate To them. Officers with girded loins remembered Even in exile, even in the heat of this deep freeze. They crowd around, cooing over the baby—the prophet Isn’t paying attention,-losing track
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Of time and money to be made under the El tracks. It seems they’ve been doing this for so long You’d think they’d learn by now. Forget the prophet Ezekiel’s rant, listen to Isaiah instead. Enter the gates Of the city. Take your harps and sweet songs. Don’t freeze. Sing that you may be remembered Leonard Kress has recent work (poetry and fiction) in Barn Owl Review, Passages North, Harvard Review, New Orleans Review, River Styx, Atticus Review, and Philadelphia Stories! Most recent poetry collections are Braids & Other Sestinas, The Orpheus Complex, and Living in the Candy Store. He lived in Philadelphia for 45 years before having to relocate to the midwest.He currently teaches philosophy, religion, and creative writing at Owens College in Ohio.
John enters the bathroom. Before I can ask him why I’m standing by the sink, he begins to put toiletries into clear Ziploc baggies. “That’s my stuff, silly,” I say, as he dries my toothbrush before bagging it. “I’m helping you pack. You’re going away, Nan. Your flight’s this morning.” “I remember.” I turn away. I can’t watch him packing my cosmetics like an aide. A woman’s face looks at me from the mirror above the sink. Her forehead is aged. I recognize the Marrero crease between her eyebrows. Her nose, full cheeks, and unsmiling lips are familiar. I saw them on Liam’s face. Those features were beautiful on him. I forget why John and I are in the bathroom. Parking Lot C Newark Liberty International Airport, NJ 10:32 a.m. I agreed with John that leaving for the airport after 10 a.m. would leave time to catch my flight. It took 15 minutes just to get through the construction outside of our building. Take-off is in less than two hours. We’re still in the airport parking lot. The web sites for Newark Airport and Continental Airlines both strongly recommend checking in two hours before domestic flights. We should have left earlier. We’d already be inside the terminal. I might already be sitting at the gate with a coffee. John takes my wheeled carry-on from the back of our truck. He rests one hand on the rear gate and pats his coat with the other. “Yes, the keys are in your pocket. Hurry up,” I want to yell, but it’s too cold to uncover my face. My hat and hood muffle the slam of the truck’s rear gate. John reaches out his hand to me. I hold his arm like an anxious elderly aunt. I watch my feet and the ground. Pebbles of Ice Melt crunch under our treads. The flat landscape of the parking lot
