“Beautiful Days” by Margaret Emma Brandl

These are the beautiful days.

When the morning comes the sky is dark. The morning comes late, the sky is gray. The windows are closed. The leaves are on the ground.

The rain is heavy and the train is slow, slow, slow. When the rain falls the train feels more open. The sky opens up on either side. Ugly streets, ugly smells, but the churches tower in the distance. The buildings rise up dark and light, stone colors. The train goes under ground and it is like a tunnel, like a cave, the steps are wet and the wind whistles between streets.

These are the beautiful days because of who I am now. I make them the beautiful days. Raincoat hanging off, cigarette smells, standing water, scaffolding, it is all made beautiful somehow—flowered umbrella, chartreuse wall, rivers of rain like crystal. Day (Truth) is a white lady with sinews and a halo of hair like snakes, she stands on the rocks, the wind blows through her, pastel. Her face is brave. It is the most perfect face. Her hands are thin, like they are breaking. Her hip bones are perfect shapes.

I am curves. I cross the street. I hold my bags out of the rain. When the train pulls in, I go through the wind. The wind goes through me. I am night.