i woke up just before my nose broke,
inertia rolled my eyes,
weightlessness curled my belly,
my mother and i separated.
then,
i.
hit.
the.
rail.
it felt that way but it also felt like:
then-i-hit-the-rail.
the crunch of my nose on metal
turned the world off.
the silence retreated
and then opened to:
i was crumpled at the bottom
of the stairwell in an italian bus.
the passengers were yelling.
a man lifted my slim 9-year-old frame
over his head and yelled.
i couldn’t understand any of it.
he yelled and yelled and yelled
at the bus driver.
spittle landed on my hand
blood muddled,
a viscous red splatter.
the color more intense
than it should've been,
brighter, richer,
vermillion.
the volume swelled
just like our old stereo would
as it warmed up.
everyone in the bus was pointing at me,
and yelling at the driver,
who looked like he wanted to
yell back, but was afraid,
sadness shaded his eyes.
i was afraid too.
the yelling got louder
and louder and louder.
every bark accented
with a finger jab.
a warm wetness smeared down my face.
the world felt like a painting by one of the masters
we had just seen on a tour at the vatican.
i looked back
for my mother.
she was motionless,
in the stairwell,
still and,
forgotten.