the dew of the Sunday night is here and
sticking to Melinda Good’s shoes.
she is trekking across the grassy field
toward the train track to end her life.
in high school, just last year, the
SAT, ACT, Scantrons—they all had
Good, Melinda on them; a kind of
irony to the girl who’s
standing in front of a speeding
Norfolk-Southern freight train with
her arms out to her sides and
her head tilted back; eyes open.