WHAT THE CHILD KNOWS ABOUT THE NIGHT

He lies stark still
in the darkness
clutching the covers
and listening to what comes
racing along the tracks and along
the tracks
	these wheels
		this string of freight cars
hurrying up the street and
			into the yard
to mount the wall of the house
he lives in
wheels and pistons
rattling like bones
along the windowsill
and into the room and up
the bedpost until his screams
bring his father stumbling 
in with his shotgun
to shoot them away
		wheels
			train
and all running backwards
along the windowsill
and down the wall
and out into the yard
and around the curve in the road
beyond the water tower
then down into the valley
and coming to a stop on
the outskirts of still another town
where in a house like this one
some other child will be
holding his breath in the dark
and waiting to scream.

—Constance Pultz

All rights to this poem belong to its author.

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