Baby, Take the Train

Lisa Merschel

Baby Lincoln and Stella Endicott | Chris Van Dusenout

With allusions to
Kate DiCamillo’s book
Where Are You Going, Baby Lincoln?

Fussy family members ban
them from holding maps,
from navigating on their own terms,
so off they go— two neighbors escape
hand-in-hand, on the lam.

Turn around, little Stella, unleash
adult Baby Lincoln’s hand.
Head home. Your captain-time
will come.

Listen, Baby: forget the past, the tasks, the
anxious breakfasts, the unmade bed.
Forget the lists, the what-to-dos and whys.

Board that train, and for goodness sake, read
the comics, devour jellybeans, the sour ones, handfuls
at a time.

Over your scratchy sweater, slip on
that silver-sequin dress you stole
from your sister’s closet. Don all your loot
from the Dollar Tree: the 13 miniature
Christmas wreath hair clips, L.A. Colors
hydrating lipstick in raging berry. Cool yourself
with the purple hand fan— starburst edition.

Apply the Better than Sex volumizing mascara—
pricier even than the high-density black wig.

Flip the thick hair, blink once—
notice the long lashes
licking your field of view. Flutter
your eyes and see the scene unfold
like the early movies—
in rapid-sequenced photographs.

Notice, finally, no need for disguise. No one
notices you. Notice that this is what travelers do. How people
mill about minding their own business, tending
to their interior gardens while you bloom in seat 3A.

Even so, just for once, assume the Marilyn Monroe:
lift your chin, squint, pucker, blow a kiss, your outstretched fingers
at right-angles with your lips. When the train rumbles to life,
leave Baby behind. Reclaim your name, Lucille. Hell, Lucy.

Then, pull off your dress, undecorate your wig,
unwig your hair, smudge your lipstick on tissue.
Sing a song to yourself, about a girl, in the sky
with diamonds.

But don’t budge that mascara. No, sister.
It will remind you, every few seconds, of a future
in pictures.