Three poems by Erin Armstrong
Credit: Melanie Hughes @nutsycoco for Unsplash
The Woman’s Evening Train
arrives ten minutes late and at the edge of dusk.
The deciduous trees grasp at the remains of their leaves;
evergreens preserve their bustle skirts in October twilight.
The Engineer stands on the platform preserved
in a time meant for lovers.
The white train in the distance, they stride arm in arm
toward the middle of town. The faint sound of the train’s
bell divides twilight from evening.
The smell of dumplings and fried rice slip in
and out of buildings as they continue leaving the town
of their imagination entering
the reality of the city:
women laugh in bars, pool balls click, traffic stalls,
lights from the city offices remain perpetually lit.
Salt from the Sound hangs between them as night dawns.
Neither of them brave enough to speak the truth walks
invisible between them.
They continue toward the sounds of laughter
and see bulbous white lights decorating the ferris wheel
as the tourists swing their feet high in the air.
Years ago, they kissed bourbon and smoke lingered
on the tips of their tongues like a cocktail yet to be
stirred.
He carries her suitcase becoming a gentleman of the old
West, one who was a different kind of wild, and her black
bag on wheels morphs into a valise that can snap shut.
In another story, one of them would lead
the other inside the hotel, demand a room
from the desk clerk, and they’d find themselves naked
on top of worn carpet.
Tonight, they avoid the possibility of the past.
At his home, he leads her to the guest room of the present;
shows her clean sheets on the bed. Here, pictures
of his wife and children hang on each wall.
She watches as he exits the room, never turning back,
evading memories standing in the present. The door
shuts and the moments of their past evaporate
like the mist off the Sound.
Hide the Map Not Yet Drawn
put the unfinished
map of my body away.
Let the black charcoal
lines fade into an ashy dust
but remain visible
for the day when you pull
it out and venture:
beyond my collarbone,
beyond the flesh between
the crux of my elbow and forearm,
beyond where my hips
reside.
Or if you cannot wait,
draw an invisible map
of the places you desire:
to find, to inhale
so that you cannot inhabit
the place without thinking
of my arches, curves, & contours.
The Woman you want
to draw.
The Woman you want
to remember to revisit
to suckle
until I cry out
like the lighthouse
spinning its lights.
Wild West Nostalgia
Think not of The Woman in red
pumps and a black dress who
you saw once on the platform
across from yours.
Wonder not where she went or who
she saw but rather how she moved
in her patent shoes that shined sunlight
at you.
Think of her ankles crossing
as she took her seat and raced
toward a destination of encounters:
men who offered her scotch and swung
her high above their heads until
she whooped in delight.
Think of her harnessing her black
bag on the platform and wonder
how many letters she may have written
of her love for you.
Take your maps from your travels
and think of The Woman who once
stood before you on a platform
of unrequited love.
Erin Armstrong
Erin Armstrong’s work has appeared in Fiction Southeast, Black Heart Magazine, Lost Magazine, The Museum of Americana: a literary review, Papeachu Review, and more. She received her MFA from the University of Arizona.
