A.J. Russell, Commodore Dead, 1864
Albumen silver print, 13.3 x 20.2 cm
Digital image courtesy of the Getty Open Content Program
We might be late for the rest of our lives
and know it wouldn’t matter,
upshot of the evening our train dragged
an abrading wreck of metal and bone
for a quarter-mile beyond the car-smash
at a small, unguarded crossing
east of Athlone. Then silence, abrupt,
threw a shivery pelt about us,
no intercom tattle, no peep from anyone –
all grappling with the twist
of our carriage or something unmessaged
from outside what we might call
anywhere, an irreversible tangle
in the trajectory of disaster that brought
six people – the parents, siblings –
breaking through evergreen trees
on a far headland, running
in a ragged scrap over fields of oat stubble
to face our articulation of iron –
and though hours would pass before we
could dismount, get a bus
to our destination, and though we made
appeasing gestures, attempted
to speak to them, we just couldn’t stop
their wails, their fingernails
scrabbling at the window until they bled.