last stop

all summer i told myself i would ride the train
to its last stop all the way at the other end
of long island. a precipice-- trains leaping
into the ocean. each engine, disposable. 
i never did but each time i missed my stop 
i played pretend that i was going far away--
that this one train might be able to glide 
underwater. sharks making faces at us 
through the windows. some people have no problems 
taking up space on the train. they stretch out their legs
underneath the seat in front of them. i keep myself compact.
i press my face to cool window. my life is comprised 
of possibilities i never take. i dream them into dust.
my fingers were full of holes & everyone i met
somersaulted through them as i waved & waved & waved.
what will you do when summer is over & all you remember
is the landscape unspooling from the train window?
i spent a week just standing on the platform 
& never boarding. watching how other people entered.
i left hand prints on glass. a ghost's graffiti. 
everyday i ate protein bars from my blue seat 
piece by piece as if i were consuming something precious. 
everything is precious when put into motion.
the final stop on the train exists only
in my body. a knot of muscle & truth.
i hold tight to it. i tell it to wait for me
& one day i will get the courage to arrive.
i will wear an invisible veil. the train's skull
will open. roof down. wind in our toes.
the ocean to welcome us under like a great curtain.
a great windshield. metal to water. salt to metal.
the last stop trembling in the unknown.
next june i want to be somewhere so green
no one will recognize me. i want a water slide
to grow from my chest & sweet gulls to slip down it.
i want to know no one i know now. i want their love
as they search for the memory of body.
they will find my hand prints. my crumbs.
they will ride the train into the water too.