Out of This Earth There’s a narrow path along the railroad tracks I follow to a small station. I ask the stationmaster, who looks like Carl Jung, what time the train for Duluth leaves. He strokes his white mustache and ponders. The train departs at twelve, he says. I’m not sure if he means noon or midnight. It’s now 3:30. You could take the big bus to Duluth, he says, but you’d have to have a certificate stating you’re in good health. I see my father-in-law, who’s a surgeon, on a bench reading a newspaper. He doesn’t seem to have heard the stationmaster. I hear a loud blast and rush out to the platform. Some boys are shooting a shotgun at the pigeons. The stationmaster comes out and yells. Either he or I throw a rock at the stupid boys. The rock ignites the dry grass. Or did the boys do it? They flee the flames, and so do I. I enter a shack and arrange old boards against the open slats so the boys can’t see me. In the back wall, there’s a small wooden door, about three feet by three feet. It’s your turn, says the woman dressed as a nurse. She’s opened the small door and waits for me to enter the narrow shaft. I refuse, I tell her, to crawl in. I’m now inside the shaft, tearing at the loose earth, digging and worming my way up. I surface in a graveyard, gasping for breath. On the gravestones, I see no names, no dates, only the last words the dead leave us. The stone beside me reads: Out of This Earth. Copyright 2024 by John Bradley
John Bradley’s most recent book of poetry is Dear Morpheus, The Glue That Is You (Dos Madres Press). A frequent reviewer for Rain Taxi, he is currently a poetry editor for Cider Press Review.
30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review
