honeysuckle: poems by colleen cosette goodman

poem about the subway part i

and down we go, back into the womb of the subway
northeastern turns to symphony and the light wholly disappears
the tram shakes and rattles and screeches - all the white girls in their fineries sneer
they are all thin and blond and living their best life
I close my eyes, feel the grime of other people's hands on my own - wonder if this is the most kind of intimate you can get - sweat on sweat, clammy like my old best friend's hand -
a thin Russian girl who always flinched when I tried to touch her

The ninth of July, 2017.