rattle on home

sitting on a stool, tuning her guitar,
she tells the crowd to raise our hands
if we’ve ever been in love. you don’t,
so I don’t, and instead I think back two hours
to the bus ride, your hip against mine, 
the bright yellow sign on the wall:
for your safety, please hold on.
please reach for a kind word, familiar melody,
a friend across a crowded room—
my hand. hold onto that. 
have you ever been in love?
it feels like being woken up
before your stop, or reminded to watch your step, 
see these hands? someone read them for me once,
said my life line and my love line are the same,
said you will understand one day, and now I do—
on the long road home,
your head on my shoulder, arm in my arm,
the bus jolts and I tighten my grip.
for safety, you know?

I reach over you to pull the cord 
while you dream a little longer.
no need to raise your hand, say thank you,
say anything at all.
we can sit in this quiet
and name it whatever you want.

“rattle on home” can be found in my debut chapbook arrhythmia, published by Rahila’s Ghost Press.