Exodus
After Chekhov’s crimson sunset, past the swamps,
I carried the high priestess, the wet-nurse,
the daughter, and the student back with me.
The train did not stop for other passengers,
moving swiftly, except when the moon wore black,
when we cut slowly through the last pine forest.
The engine churned on, but we didn’t sleep.
The conductor flung the bible out the window.
We could hear her roaring laugh.
I watched it splinter along the rails,
pages flying up like white doves.
We cut our hair or changed our names.
The grass soon swallowed the tracks,
but first we saw them circle the sky —
a halo.
by Amy Bohlman