The Northeast clacks by on the dark
of a night train, churning steady
as a mother’s heartbeat
through a womb.
of locomotive membrane, past streetlights
dully casting sticky pools on
moistened pavements, their quick voices
too blurry to decipher.
for suburban tones to smuggle in
from the rainy eastern seaboard, I press
my ear against the wall. Then my palms. Then
my anxious, ready for a birth
past Massachusetts, through Rhodes Island, deep
into the belly of Connecticut, before
spooling damply new
onto your earth.
For Natalie Easton