she sits across from me, the worn denim of her skirt

stretched across her legs, her shoulders hunched over, her

puffy coat crinkling. her backpack sits in between her legs,

next to a puddle of spilt soda and covered in patches of

bands and political statements and even an old obama sticker,

as if she wants to be reminded of a time when her president had skin

as dark as her, knew what it was like to be as dark as her. the

men next to her stretch their legs and she shrinks further into herself,

so far that i wonder if her mama ever sat her down and taught her to never

inconvenience a man, to call every white man sir until he told her otherwise, to

keep her hands in sight when they asked to see her bag, even if they trembled with

fear or anger because goddamnit, it was her right to keep it to herself, to

live, to breath. i wonder if her mama, loving but hardened by the world, took away

that too, but her chest is too far in to watch it rise and her hair covers her face,

and as much as i want to gently push it back, i don’t.