Three Short Stories about
Love and Thermodynamics
I
Whenever I hear a train howl in the distance,
the words I love you immediately come to my
lips. I love you. And I almost feel nineteen.
Whenever someone asks me my age, I stutter
as if to say nineteen before realizing I don't
even know anymore.
II
I lived with a woman who was not blood
for the first time when I was nineteen. She said
to me once as we were turning in, "I love you
not least of all because you are here when I
wake up in the morning and nothing else is,
not September, not the city when I was a girl.
You are here. I love you."
III
Sometimes at night when there is no moon
and I stand out in the meadow, a train
comes by as I look up. I find myself saying
to millions of little points of light, "I can't get
enough of the train. She's just like forever,
leaving all the time. You can hear her wheels
for miles and the dogs all around sing for hours
after she rolls by. 'I want to come,' they cry.
'I want to come. Don't leave me behind. I
love you. Can't you hear me? I love you.'"
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