Space

I am sitting on the train to work.
I am sitting on the train and breathing.
Eyes front, spine long.

Around me, other women are doing the same, or some version of it:
the blank stare and box breath.
the deep-dive phone scroll, searching for place to land.
the closed eyes, body rocking with the movement of the car.

What we are not doing is ceding space.
Men board the train, step quickly toward the few remaining seats.
We remain still, un-budged, willfully oblivious to the space to our left and right.

We allow the men to sit; we don’t prevent them.
But this morning it’s their turn to give way. Just a little.
Give us this – at least.
It is the least you can do, we have decided.

Miss me with your joy this morning,
your ability to be carefree when so many are grieving, threadbare.

Miss me with your shrugging feigned innocence, your wounded best intentions.
I cannot abide it, much less sit beside it while holding a caldera of rage.

These minor concessions, pockets of space on the subway bench,
are the hills we die on today.

Before we die elsewhere, that is:
in parking lots,
hospital waiting rooms, or
silently inside.

This is all we can bear to demand, today.
And you will give it.

Tomorrow, we will get up, move forward. But today,
we do not budge.