a train through the south

by Grady VanWright

Clatter-click, the wheels hum hymnals,

iron devotions through swamp-threaded veins.

Out the window—a preacher,

part-wolf, part-telephone,

howls his sermon into a crescent moon,

dangling low, like an earring, in the ear

of a woman with magnolia hands.

Her fingers glisten, dripping sap or sweat,

a wave, or is it the branches—

bone-white, clawing, waving back?

Cypress trees stagger backward—

bayou soldiers wade into the black ooze,

their boots whispering secrets to the mud.

Hats tilt in slow salute,

silent tongues murmuring:

“Not yet, not yet, your time sleeps still.”

A burst of cicadas—machines, surely,

spitting binary in the sultry haze,

and the train lunges forward,

its wheels chewing through memory,

spitting it out as steam.

The windows fog, and I see sepia:

a woman cradles a baby of marigolds;

the petals wilt with every breath.

A man tips his hat to a shadow,

then folds himself into it,

his edges blurring like ink spilled on paper.

The conductor’s voice crackles through static:

“Next stop: cotton, next stop: ghosts.”

Past fields that ripple with laughter,

the earth grinning where the plow has bitten.

Out here, a horse gallops backward—

no, not a horse, a clock,

its hooves marking time on endless tracks,

tick-tocking into a vortex of kudzu.

The vine creeps, swallowing all but the train,

which becomes a ship now, slicing waves of moonlight—

a schooner, no—a memory,

tasting of salt and a mother’s hum.

A child outside, barefoot,

plays hopscotch with gravestones.

The numbers flicker faintly:

1863, 1929, today.

Someone taps the window from the other side—

a finger, not human,

a root grown curious, its bark cracked with age.

It beckons, it pleads,

and the cypress soldiers bow in unison.

The absurd crumbles, flakes away.

The train grinds into its final station—

a street, present and pulsing,

where a man sells honey

in jars that mirror his eyes.

Magnolia perfume drifts on the air.

The preacher’s howl fades into a hum

lodged deep in my chest,

and the moon—brass and glowing—

pins itself to my lapel.

Image of Grady VanWright

BIO: Grady VanWright is a poet, author, and playwright whose work blends introspection, independence, and the surreal edges of the human condition. Based in Houston, Texas, he has been writing and reading poetry for over 25 years, drawing inspiration from a lifetime of experiences and historical fascinations. His work has been published in Washington Square Review (2025), The McNeese Review, Oddball Magazine, and numerous online literary journals. With a distinctive voice that merges stream-of-consciousness with moderate surrealism, Grady continues to craft evocative narratives that challenge perception and invite contemplation.