To leave you

To leave you, first I had to come by train, 

up the coast. A single rose and bear wrapped 

in plastic leaned against the window in front of me.

They sell them for a dollar at every train station. I was thinking 

about that Sylvia Plath quote about sleeping in an open field when

the hills gave way to the view of water 

and every head turned to face that flat horizon that received 

us. I suddenly saw the paths of our lives stretching outwardly

and their point of intersection in the train car.

I saw what we were leaving as it threw light 

over my shoulder, and where we were headed as we shot forward. I stopped 

that night at the Surfline station and slept in your frat house.

Men came in and out of the room without addressing me. 

I thought about where the bear was going and where he had been

and the Surfline station and your two empty hands.

The sun in Santa Barbara fell like a weight off a cliff; night set 

off like fireworks and I watched alone from your window.

I was thinking about that quote again--”I want to mingle 

with road crews”--but didn’t tell you. I got on the train the next day 

and ran to the window to wave at the back of your head. To watch 

you slip back into your real life. 

I did not think of it until later. But on the train ride back, I knew

I was too tired. I remembered before, riding up the coast,

energized by strange company. Then

there was the back of your head, and I couldn’t

remember a single conversation we had that weekend.

Just the train ride there and the sun going down. Someone 

was looking out their window at the moon. I wanted 

to love the strangers on the train and see them off at their stops. 

I wanted to know if the women knew that 

Sylvia Plath quote and if they thought 

being on a train was close enough to being 

part of the scene. I tried to forget more.

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