By Betsy K. Brown
Dear child (if you happen to exist
within my waiting womb), I wonder if
we’ll take more trains together, you and me,
and you’ll look out the window, too. For now,
my passenger, there is no way to peer
out of your little car where you might sleep
if you are real, no way to know your route,
or if you’ll exit at the proper time.
I see myself on a windowless train,
careering toward a city or a crash,
a form just fetus-small compared to earth,
still sitting, growing, waiting for a door
to open, let me out to breathe, to feel,
to think, and hence to know that I am real.
Betsy K. Brown is a poet, essayist, and long-time educator. Her work has appeared in many outlets, including Plough Quarterly, First Things, New Ohio Review, and AWP's The Writer's Notebook. She is a poetry editor for the Anselm Society and the author of City Nave and Leading a Seminar on Frankenstein. She lives with her husband and son in Arizona. You can read more of her work and contact her at betsykbrown.com.