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Late night, no moon.
In the distance a train cries
like a whippoorwill,
and a child, in his bed,
sick with fever, wakens
from dreams of far off places.
In the next room
his mother murmurs a decade
on the rosary she holds
in swollen hands;
a pile of laundry at her feet;
an ashtray overflowing
with stumps of cigarettes.
As the train passes into the hills,
an orchestra of crickets
resumes its lullaby.
Copyright 2016. From A Blister of Stars by Jason Irwin. Published by Low Ghost Press.