Posted in Poetry

“How is she?”

“How is she?”

I ask.

Your tone changes,

like I’ve asked you to

cover up a sin for me

like murder, armed robbery.

“Fine”, you reply,

so curtly like a begrudging consent.

Our family of three

became a train splitting in three,

to continue on separate tracks

as single units

speeding into three different directions,

carrying our own cargo

like freight trains in the night.

She’s sped on so far

I can no longer see

the beams of her headlights.

Different tracks,

different signals,

with your carriage

still the one in between our two.

Only you can know

how she is.

So when I ask,

“how is she?”

I don’t want a tone change.

I just want to know

“how is she?”

because you can see her

and I can’t.

©Cece Alex, 2020