For M, who looks out the bus window

by Fatima Jafar

For M, who looks out the bus window

and sighs.

Collects alliteration and assonance like verbal timestamps of

our meandering, watery days. 

Shows me how to throw a soft cheek to red-orange traffic light. 

Carries an orange with her wherever she goes

and wears one hoop earring (the other lost at the bottom of her bag or

fallen some feet behind her). 

The bus rumbles and jerks on as we go up the long rainy road in the dark. 

The roadriver is cut open. The knife still glints by the sidewalk. 

Teeth hold their breath, waiting to touch something shiny. 

Our silence is mosaicked. 

It glitters in geometric patterns and throws its fractured self at everyone it sees.

Sleeps as much as I do. 

Deepens the loose-limbed

warm-bread

sugary Sunday evening. 

Listens as I try to pull love from the back of my throat and

does not laugh when it catches on my teeth. 

Poses for every photo willingly

and is stuck with tack on my bedroom wall,

sweet celluloid gleam from months ago. 

Fills the space in my bed. 

My sofa. My bedroom floor. 

Listens to the late night song’s

unforgiving bass-line

and always knows what the pounding means. 

Watches people move sadly across the dance floor on Saturdays

but remembers to steal the purple light for later.

Threads herself into each morning of mine, 

cross-legged forever. 

Headphones burning with familiar noise, 

the electronic hum is one we both can sing

and remember

and keep. 

The bus doors open begrudgingly as we come to our stop.