Public Republic

Sonja de Vries

Photo: L Bonnett

We rode the train from Amsterdam to Belgrade
It was 1947.
I was beginning to look like a woman again
after being all knees and elbows, living
on potatoe skins and roots all those years.
Now we had bread, and even cheese,
a bottle of wine from Spain.
The rocking of the train held me to my seat
taking in the changing countryside,
and the sweat of soldiers returning home.

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one.
he stood looking out the window for hours
as though he’d miss something
if he sat down. I could see
his muscles move under his uniform.
His comrades were splayed around the compartment
as if a blast had sent them flying.
He saw me watching him. He moved
into the hallway.

I followed, held the leather handles
above my head tightly, swinging.
The curve of a hillside rocked
our bodies together, and with a life
of it’s own, my mouth
found his adams apple and his hands
reached under my dress to find
my hips, already wild with the rythym
of the train and the abundance
of his neck, his flesh so smooth and salty
I bit into it and tasted blood. The train’s whistle
blasted us into the mountain pass and
I swung my legs around his hips,
startling a moan from him. I released the leather
handles to unbutton his shirt all
the while laughing : Alive.Alive.
The war is finally over.