They tell of they said they told
We drove so fast that our car seemed to do
nothing but scrape against the landscape; not
unlike the way our mothers taught us to shave our legs.
Wielding the turns as if they’d been our own
knobbly knees and ankle bones.
We didn’t dare look over out shoulders for fear that
we wouldn’t see an ounce of dust in our path.
Just as we feared missing a breath and nicking
Only to later bare those cuts with pride, ’cause
we’d had used a razor that morning.
They told us to be shakers, and earth quakers. Our
dreams were second to none.
Those tunnels were the same ones that the trains
would pass through.
Tennae Maki is a weekend writer that works for an architecture firm. She is also the volunteer audio archivist for a Brooklyn-based arts radio station. Her work has been published in numerous print and digital literary journals, including; 491, Spillway, Eunoia Review, Futures Trading, The Bicycle Review, Lone Star Poetry Magazine, and Belleville Park Pages.