One Whiskey Jag West of Amboy,
two long snakes of rail

stretch, coal-black,
into horizon.

A dusty, dead moth of a caboose,
buckled over iron ore wheels.

Warped, greyed—
a wheeze of boards.

One splintered eyebrow.
One cataract eye.

Your palm
flattened, reaching

before I can breathe the word
burn,

sizzling

I leave you standing,
fused,

your wind-chapped lips
cracked to O.

Dacia J. Harrold is a queer psychoanalyst living in Arizona where she recently completed an MFA in poetry at Northern Arizona University. She enjoys spending time outdoors and reading and writing fiction and poetry. She tries to write poems that capture the mood of our time, highlight emerging cultural phenomena, and imagine things imminent. Her work has been published in the Suisun Valley Review and Creosote and is currently in press at Puerto Del Sol.