The train hasn’t moved for ten
minutes & my recital starts in five.
There’s no overpass or underpass,
no way around the tracks. I catch
my reflection in the sideview mirror:
black mascara, pink gloss, blonde hair
held by chopsticks, nineties chic.
I’m singing tonight in the big auditorium
in the Casa de Amistad. It’s just one
block away. Mom decides it’s time
to teach me something. She pulls over.
We get out & the South Texas heat
assaults us. I can feel my powder
foundation melt & my 32AA bra stick
to my skin as we approach the train.
Never, ever try to go under she says.
Don’t climb over the link either. Climb
that ladder, walk across the back,
climb down the other ladder. Never
do this without me. Don’t tell Dad.