The Tuesday out a train window
over blueberry scores and shuttering tea.

We burned our tongues in chai tea--
broke sticks of cinnamon and dusted our
hands in the spice to help us wake up
each morning. Without the smell on
our wrists it
would be hard to tell each day from
the next-- same sauntering-- tap-dance
over the tracks helped us forget
that we used to have names for the days 
of a week like Wednesday and Sunday-- and I still
somehow miss Sunday. I think Sunday might have
worn yellow hats and baked berry tarts
and always had a tea kettle on the stove--
We ordered blue berry scones awhile ago
but they never came-- either that or you
ate them without telling me.
Time doesn't pass the same on the train. 
We demanded the window seats-- there
would be no point of travel otherwise--
dangled ourselves like a pair of counterfeit
crystal earrings there-- held hands and forgot
to talk to each other-- undulated in the clatter of the 
spoon-playing kneed train.
Everyone could play harmonica and I borrowed
yours because I left mine elsewhere. The train could
play out the rhythm and we followed her over
every track-finger snap-- loose-jaw clack 
and choral moan of her wheels sighing
whenever we passed water. They didn't check 
tickets before we went on. They didn't check
backpacks or purses. They didn't smooth 
their hands over our hips to feel if we were
women or men or hiding explosives.
We ordered blue berry scones. 
My mother asked where we were going and
I had wanted to make up some story about
Finish countrysides or the hills of Scotland
both of which I only imagine as green 
but I told her the truth. 
told her that we had wanted to see
our lives outside a train window-- watch 
until life turned into a film reel spun 
across eye lids-- blinked only when it started
to get dark and the sky made a dark room
for us to make photo albums from our seats--
I said 
hurry up before it's bright again and they
bring us more tea-- 
and the tea always burned our tongues
but we never learned different-- the train's 
oscillating waltz kept us in a trance--
we slept walked in our seats and saw
a thousand images of ourselves walking
across green fields in Finland and Scotland
where we had never been before-- we passed
a bazaar in Dehli where we bought more cinnamon
sticks for the chai tea and the night to come--
We wrote the same poem everyday with new words
and fell in love with each other again 
every time the train slowed down to let elephants 
or cows or manatees creep across the tracks
by the moon. I forgot your name and almost called
you Sunday because it was the only name I could remember.
We stopped sleeping through the night
and started counting days differently by the number
of times we saw ourselves outside the window
and number of times we remembered to order blue
berry scones. 
You named me Tuesday-- and I thought it was fitting.
And the train stopped but we kept 
swinging in our chairs and the tea in the cups
still shimmed side-to side.
And it was still bright in the window.
And there was a clock.
And there was a station.
And there were only a thousand versions of
ourselves waiting to board without
backpacks or tickets or explosives.
You said we shouldn't leave before we try
the blue berry scones we had ordered.
I told you I knew you had eaten them
and you said sorry, but not for eating
the scones, for lying about eating them.
And we walked off the train just
to pass another pair of ourselves
get on board. We told them to not forget that
the tea is always hot and to order
blueberry scones to remind you of
the days of the week. He said 
tuesday, tuesday-- my Love.