Red Line
The Braintree train rolls in two directions,
in and out, in and
out, the
old hell bassinet, filled to the brim
with the suds of infants. The Braintree
train is a black and tan-
more of a black and white- like spit up,
their skin, on the black of mother's sweater.
Every girl has a destination.
Every snake has a two way tongue, every train has a roar
and a tone, like they're
paging mother in Macy's- can you hear it?
The bassinet is rocking
wildly, giving birth to planets
The womb is in the river.
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