This is not the smiling baby on the train that I remember.
This one’s more serious;
one who collects faces. (1)
I must have been looking in from another track
while a third train ran between, layers of glass
creating an undersea effect.
On the seabed there will be domes
for women without purpose, who like to gaze out
and judge quietly.
The babies will be kept safe
by women who write about hearth,
able to see through small eyes.
What I see through small eyes
is nothing but panic.
I remember the panic.
(1) This refers to Tania Hershman’s poem Baby