Halfway to the border, her deep pains start.
The seat smells of brine and eau de cologne.
Shuffling her papers, the young guard winks
and hustles her off the Paris train.
Gare Montparnasse to Chartres, milky breast--
but born in a caul, shrouded at birth.
Grandmother tells us, when we cannot nap,
of the stench of the cars, the retch of bile.
How an abacus clicks at each escape.
How it serenades the crowning infant's ears.
Beaux yeux are stamped in memory.
So we play mother on rainy days,
taking turns at the bottom of a grave.