Natasha Trethewey

7. At the Station

The blue light was my blues,
and the red light was my mind
           — Robert Johnson

The man, turning, moves away
from the platform. Growing smaller,
he does not say

Come back. She won’t. Each
glowing light dims
the farther it moves from reach,

the train pulling clean
out of the station. The woman sits
facing where she’s been.

She’s chosen her place with care —
each window another eye, another
way of seeing what’s back there:

heavy blossoms in afternoon rain
spilling scent and glistening sex.
Everything dripping green.

Blue shade, leaves swollen like desire.
A man motioning nothing.
No words. His mind on fire.