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The doors open, letting in
a thin woman in her 20’s, 30’s, 60?
tight jean shorts, hairy legs,
dirty Converse sneakers,
bulbous eyes and a head
of twisted frayed brown coils.
She carries two white grocery bags
overflowing with soiled napkins
and McDonald’s cups, rims
stained with syrupy beads of cola.
She pinpoints me, rushes
down the aisle, sits too close,
stares and lunges forward—
"Shut your mouth!"
She squirms in her seat, extends
her neck, makes as if to say "Hey,"
but it comes out "Heh."
Instinct tells me—don’t
look at her head-on
My boyfriend tries to distract her—
she stares through him, doesn’t blink.
Sitting and standing
late-night passengers watch, say nothing—
stone effigies.
Panicked, I fumble in my bag
for a weapon, anything.
A compact mirror—could this deflect her?
I count the stations that remain,
stand up before arrival,
she furiously shrieking,
"Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut-up!"
We had stopped talking long before.
by Clara Blackwood
from: Under the Dragon's Tail, ©2002
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