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A Dare
I pressed my body into gravel and oil,
the earth shuddering like it knew my name.
Wind tore at my hair—
hot metal screaming above me,
the stink of burnt grease and fear beside me.
Too late, I thought of low-hung hoses,
of chains and things that could reach down
and pluck me straight out of the world.
I held my breath,
as if air alone might lift me
into the dreadful underside of things.
And the train— God, the train!—
roared on without mercy, gaining speed,
while I became smaller than my own fear,
flatter than my pulse
beating against the gravel.
And in that grinding forever,
I wished I hadn’t been so brave,
hadn’t laid my young life down
for nothing more than a dare.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted out.
But all I could do
was keep still
and pray the sky
would come back.
The train at last was gone and I unscathed,
so I popped up like jack-in-the-box
and scared the daylights out of my friends,
laughing and triumphant and unnerved
at what I’d done without thinking,
and wondered if I’d be more careful
next time.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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