I find a place
between a woman
with bodega grocery bags
and a man holding a worn violin case.

The seat carries
someone’s remnant heat.

At the next stop
a pregnant woman presses in front of me.

We smile.

I give her my heated seat.

We are all just bodies
accepting
other bodies.

A forearm against my back.
A shoulder settles into mine.

The soft weight
of a stranger’s coat
glances my leg
every time
the train jostles.

I like this.

I miss touch.

I spend so much time
carefully contained.

Teaching my daughter
about boundaries.

Locking my door.

Not training the bite
out of my dog.

Sleeping alone.

For twenty minutes
we are animals in a den.
Warm.
Tolerant.
Breathing the same air.
No introductions.
No disclosures.
No one earning
the right
to be this close.

The train brakes hard.

A stranger’s hand
lands briefly
on my waist
to keep from falling.
Then disappears.
As if it never happened.

I think
there are people
I have loved
on the train.

I let the car rock me back
and forth like a bassinet.

In my 20s
I would get panic attacks
on the train.

It would start with a pain
in some unreachable part
of my back.

Suddenly there wasn’t enough air.
I would have to sit
on the dirty ground

before my body
made the decision
for me.

Really, I just didn’t know
how to let go.

How to love
not being in control.

At my stop
I step onto the platform.
The smell of 90s marijuana.
Someone laughing three cars away.

The crowd separates
like water
running down
a well-tread bank.

Already I miss them.