Nica Franklin

1


Agreed. I sat in a house nearby this railroad. A place with two rooms I remember owning. I was cornered there a long time. Hunched over. Fishing in that stove for scraps I hid. Reminds me of

eating. Or rather telling time. Not the stains or that purling in my gut, but the slow blood heavy in my fingertips, lingering underneath, those bloodbanks ready for hulling, as if they

that’s rented, battered or like a raw deal at ten o’clock in the morning, that’s repairing then chafing itself, each time dawn breaks, rasping. I hear it.


2


In that city, back in the far field of railroad yards, I turned up. Out of the inflamed river and burrowed into the bank’s slop. It was revealed what my sodden wallet held: some nickels

I imagined gently being painted, my face on each one. There were times before now.