And at the sound of the passing train,
the steady click-clack against the tracks, I stood up

from where she and I lay, shielding my eyes
from the sun, looking

toward the noise that echoed out from the tunnel
onto the hillside. I stood

barefoot, sweater falling from the cliff
of my shoulder, the grass underfoot puddled

with browned water leaking
from some cow-trough. I looked toward the tracks

and thought about the days of feeling
hopeless, all the times we talked

about hopping onto a freight train at dusk:
how we’d escape this town, survive

by stealing peaches from faraway farms,
wiping away the juice that dripped

down our chins. Then her footsteps behind me,
bare feet pulping the wet grass. Warm arms

encircled me. I held my own arms out
like a cross, wanting

to hold her back, to pull her
closer. As the train passed, I imagined a child

looking out the window, out at the fields, thinking
that maybe we looked like something holy.

Despy Boutris