“If it’s taller than it is wide, it’s a penis. If it’s wider than it is tall, it’s your mother.”
-- Doctor Pepperell on Sigmund Freud

In the middle of the table sits a piebald cat,
curled up, one leg extended,
because I hate my father.

When he’s finished washing he will rise.
We will leave together on a journey
through mountains
in dark tunnels
that stand for girls
who walk the street in scarlet.

We will take a train because I hate men.

Cat, train and I will weave our way
around the cues of baby prams
that line the street,
longing for pleasures
forbidden
to fall into their mouths.

He moistens up his paws
and prods
the places we don’t think about.
I try to look away, of course,
because I hate my mother.

The cat tells me all women want a train.

When I am sick from traveling,
because of what my parents did,
we’ll round a bend where women sit obsessed,
playing with needles and toy trains
their mothers never let them have.

Cat, train and I will fly between the rows of those
who wait to watch the train go by,
and wave, and cheer,
and fall behind.
It is the only pleasure
for those who love their mothers.