She drinks straight from the bottle a full cut of lemon and salt. It's supposed to make her insides visible, so she can hold up a kidney leaf and pretend to read it like a tarot card, pluck a timeline from out of a beautiful garnet vein. She could do all this and more, but she's content to finish only what's been allotted. There's a train that runs all over the countryside, but comes back to the same station. As with any ritual, timing is important. Measures matter, more isn't better. The ticket counter's painted a bloated grey. The ceiling fan's coated with dust. She's allowed to wait on a little bench on the platform. She can knit or read novels, write notes, have idle thoughts, nod off until she's awakened. When she does, it will be as if no time had even passed, though the clock on the tower will be wearing a different face.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.