I turn without knowing why
feet catching the rhythm of a city
half-awake half dreaming
A man passes me with a jacket
too large and a look like he’s carrying tomorrow’s news
but not telling it yet
My fingers flex empty but restless
like they might remember something
if I just let them
Somewhere a door closes shuts sharp enough
to prick the quiet open in my chest
I want to say something
maybe I even try
but the sound disappears
before it reaches my lips
I think about the last sentence I didn’t finish
and how it hangs there
waiting for a reason to fall apart
The sky sits low and uncommitted
neither holding back nor rushing forward
I keep going
one uncertain foot then the next
in the space between what I had
and whatever waits to be made
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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The Sound That Carries Me
When I lie in bed, the train always finds me. The wheels slam against the tracks, loud and unforgiving, like something inside me that never learned how to rest. The horn cuts through the dark in broken intervals. Too close, too real, impossible to ignore. It drags me back to the fields of my childhood. Back when I thought life was simple. It wasn't. I just didn't have the language for how heavy it already felt. I was small, trying to survive things I didn't know how to name yet.
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Comments (1)
Outstanding work, Tim! Very powerful! 🌸