Index by Author

The Lyric Poem Prize, Winter 2014
Terri McCord
Asleep Near Tracks
The train whistles a blow-
by-blow of current

scented with cut lemons

as I roll from a warm grove.

This wake is a broken yolk,

My eyes yellowed—
      jaundice or magic—
two suns to match up
to one, a tunnel
envisioned for sleep again,

the train’s main light
silenced by miles,
electricity run underground, undercover.

My eyelids are small hills,
mounds I count      and cross over,
two lemon shapes that could smell

so sweet if no train passed through
this citrus sleep.

©2014 Terri McCord