Taiwan is a Dr. Seuss dreamscape of trains. Old trains, new ones. Fat trains, skinny ones. Mountain trains and country trains, with jungle rolling ‘round you in a clack clack clack. Fast trains, too, and modern ones—a bullet train to blur the island as you pass, and subway trains that sing like happy mountain birds.
For your heart, the windows, hung with cheerful curtains. They snatch up leafy mountains in their greedy gaze. They grab the muddy pastures stitched green with rice in even rows. They cup them in their hands. Here, they say to you. Hold up your glass. Green rushes in ‘til it spills out all over. You forgot how much you needed that.
For your ears, a friend. You are sure to find one. The person sitting next to you, from Taipei or China or Scotland. Wherever. Give him a fruit, the one someone gave you this morning. Tell him about all you’ve seen. Surely he has a story or two to swap, even if his English is very, very bad. He wants to see what you have in your hands. He makes the ride uncurl, the smoke of understanding hanging at your heads.
Under your belly, the wheels. They are the drums, beat beat beating. Thoughts of home and family, and some things you regret. Thoughts of a woman far away, wondering how to love best. The future rolling toward you on shining distant tracks. Wheels of gunmetal grey, pounding always underneath.
Taiwan’s blood pours through her trains. Trains to tear your heart apart in weeping, silver shreds. Trains to put it back, the book you borrowed but did not keep.
Old trains, new ones. Fat trains, skinny ones. Chug chug chug.
