History Is Like A Child On A Train
A new poem by Genevieve Goffman
1
Choo chooo—the train conductor!
Oh no! He has searched me out!
I do not care! I’ve crashed around on the tracks behind me,
And I will crash around on the tracks in front!
Maybe he found me splayed out like a slob,
my feet up where they shouldn't be.
But when he leaves the car again he won't know what I do with my feet at all.
2
“If I take wing with the dawn
And come to rest on the western horizon,
Even there, Your hand will be guiding me.
Your right hand will be holding me fast.”1
But God, how I want to be known,
To be expected,
To be something you have faith in.
But I am voiceless, stopless,
I can not disembark myself.
I can only wave from the window.
Goodbye—did you see me?
Goodbye
3
“Know that sometimes there are men who choose death because they wish to escape this wretched earth, which first bears us but then devours us.” 2
And what if there is blood on the tracks
In some cities it is common practice
For those who do not wish to ride
To instead hurl themselves before a moving train.
And when they do, train service stops
Sometimes for several whole hours—
Psalm 139:12
Wiesel, The Golem, 17
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