Agatha Beins: Passage
On the bus I prefer to sit next to a woman. Especially if she has nice hair. Or if she is old. Unless she is holding a small child in her arms or on her lap. I prefer not to sit next to children. I prefer children at a distance equivalent to two arm’s-lengths, their arms, not mine. Their hands are always wet. I prefer to sit next to someone reading a book, preferably a paperback book with vertical creases along the spine and pages rounded and softening the edges. Unless it is worn through carelessness. Then I prefer to sit next to a newspaper reader, whom I cannot dislike when he ends up cramming it between the seats. On the bus I prefer to eat bananas and peanut butter pretzels. Unless the sun has set. Then I prefer pomegranates and chocolate. I prefer not to sit next to a man in a suit. Unless he has a wedding ring and parts his hair on the left, his left, not mine. Unless he does not have enough hair with which to make a part. Then I prefer the window seat. When I am dreaming I prefer to ride alone, to be the last lonely passenger on an articulated bus, in the last window seat, so that the driver disappears with each long turn. I prefer the echoes of rust against the spaces left by bodies now a backdrop for late-night reruns, now cradling nostalgia for someone’s heat. I prefer the city through the reflection of my eyes and the uncombed splay of my hair, when it offers up itself, unclothed, a synonym.
AGATHA BEINS teaches at Texas Woman’s University and rides her bicycle around Denton, Texas. She has poems and essays published or forthcoming in The Laurel Review, Blackbird, Pebble Lake Review, Newfound, Sinister Wisdom, and Women: A Cultural Review.
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