by Marjorie Thomsen
From where I sit, I see the back of her.
The light has just left and I know what happens
when a train window gives you the unexpected
reflection. I’ve used it for vanity, for putting on
smoky-plum lipstick, and I’ve looked past it
to the fast-moving black, silently trying to perfect
my questions for this epoch. Tonight, I watch
the passenger smooth her long hair, combing
with fingers and preparing for other hours, the
other side of the window. Maybe she is readying
herself to dine on something well seasoned and for after—
her hair’s length lovingly wound by a musician
or cut in summer for charity or simplicity. Perhaps
she’s only preparing for sleep, for moving through
a new view where a dream takes her. A dream
is like a hand, too, lifting a blindfold.
