Poetry Kristine Ong Muslim — December 14, 2015 11:19 — 1 Comment
Rapid Transit – Kristine Ong Muslim
For you, it is always rush hour, always
the same hydraulic hiss of electric train doors
tight-lipped about their vacuum,
their hull swollen with immediacy,
their carriage smothered
by your restlessness,
always the same familiar melodic ding
of train doors clamping shut
their seamless traction, their
gaskets and threaded metal joints—
the slow wear and tear prodding you along,
for all time oblivious to your aimless
lurching forward to whatever city
you have fled from this time.
Chafed by friction, the rails hold up,
hold down your roaring part of the world.
What am I?
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney