Juliana Gray

Omega Train

The dead take their coffee black. They slip
habitual shrink-wrapped Danish into their pockets,

where they go stale. When they descend the stairs,
their shoes rasp a dull susurrus. The train

is waiting, doors folded back like wings.
The dead file inside, no touching, no rush,

find their seats or stand, reaching up
automatically for a cold rail.

Their plain dark clothes reveal nothing
of their bodies– of tumors, flu, gunshot wounds,

bad hearts or lungs, overdoses.
Their mouths might as well be wired shut.

The doors furl, the engine chuffs, a chime
signals their departure. Hands empty,

the dead stare out the windows as the train
shuttles past a blur of brick, stone,

smeary light. When the train must pause at a station,
the dead gaze out at the crowd, locking eyes

with waiting passengers who step back,
clutching tokens they’ll someday have to spend.

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Juliana Gray's most recent poetry collection is Honeymoon Palsy (Measure Press, 2017). Recent poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from West Trestle Review, Willow Springs, River Heron Review and elsewhere. An Alabama native, she lives in western New York and teaches at Alfred University.