By Emily Tuszynska

Featured Art: Train by Edward Mitchell Bannister

The interior landscape shifts, erodes.
                While the children sleep we shore it up
                                with flotsam but the next day another

tide-bitten chunk of coastline
                crumbles. The trouble is we’re living
                                all at once. We keep rearranging the furniture

to try to make it fit. By day we push
                aside the clutter, lay the baby
                                on the floor she drums with open palms

as if to feel it’s there. Something solid
                underneath. Mostly everything sways.
                                A tree falls and the house next door

stands empty for years. The boy holds his sister
                to the window and shows her how
                                to wave goodbye, and that’s the morning,

fingerprints in the dust of it. Outside the day
                moves away in all directions. Streetlights
                                come on. When as I walk the baby the night train  

whistles through its distant crossing,
                why does it feel like we are the ones
                                hurtling toward some unknown destination?

I lean my forehead against the icy, rattling glass,
                look through our reflection at the moon
                                rushing through branches. Look, there’s a farmhouse,

miles from the lights of any town. Someone
                turns on a lamp in one of the windows;
                                someone stands there, watching us go past.

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Emily Tuszynska lives in Virginia, where she teaches at George Mason University and raises three children. Some of her recent poems can be found in Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, and Water~Stone Review.

Originally published in NOR 28.