October
I keep running away, following
highway lines, following yellow.
Years of Octobers wear thick
on my bones. They crack.
A train sped from the station
at eight o’clock, killed a boy by two.
He is the center of the room
tombstone. His teeth on the track.
I keep running toward him.
His fingernails are sand by now.
The train still speeding through town,
past the corner store and fence slats
where I hung my vending machine necklace.
He’s in the vibrating of my skull.
I’m running to his last words.
Sage Curtis’ work has been published or is forthcoming in Glass Poetry, Main Street Rag, burntdistrict, Yes Poetry, Vagabond City Lit, and more. She was named a Writer on the Verge by San Francisco’s 2017 Litcrawl and her chapbook Trashcan Funeral is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. She owes her MFA to her amazing professors and peers from the University of San Francisco. Find more of her work at www.sagedaniellecurtis.com.