The skinny young woman on
the bus
is talking softly on her
phone.
She speaks in tones
that only foreshadow
words,
whole notes of vaguely
musical breath.
It is right to call her
skinny.
Shoulder bones hold her
jacket up
like slacking tent poles.
Something inside shies
away from
skin and sinks toward a
vanishing point in her
belly,
near her waiting womb.
There is still a trace of
little girl left
in the way honeyed hair
strays
from the clip at the back
of her head—
faintly bright with weary
exuberance.
Her hand wanders upward to
lazily tame it.
She sits with her legs
drawn up and in,
the toes of her shoes
her only contact with the
ground,
as if the world were
covered in water
far too cold for a deep
plunge.
I want to take her home,
to feed her a meal of
handmade hope
then recline for hours by
the fire
playing Go Fish, laughing
and
pointing to the schools of
rainbow green blessings
darting all around us
still.
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