Don’t Let Go
It’s spring 1996, and it’s you and me.
Lifeblood of the city, the Metro around us,
in our ears, our bones, electric heat burns the nose.
Pain grips my back; your small shoulders slant,
textbooks a weight beyond the classroom.
Bodies press in, jostle.
Tandem we sway, each curve a dictator.
Security rail above, too high for you.
I check—your white-knuckled fingers thread my bag.
Don’t let go.
It’s the belly of Madrid. It’s you and me
Closer than before.
Tunnel lights flash, ozone wind through lowered windows.
A rhythmic lullaby, wheels ca-clacking
vibrate through the soles of my aching feet.
Hours they’ve stood through strings of stops and starts.
Miles they’ve walked down streets, up stories and stairs.
Dim underground passages lie behind, lined with
shredded platform ads, old news fading.
Not us, say it. Not us.
It’s hora de la siesta, and it’s you and me.
No rest for trains, for us
with the crush of men, pores oozing fumes of liquor,
and the stink of women, sweat dripping,
and the chatter of tourists making me wish
our skin was brown, our eyes not blue.
In this together.
Last stop, last day.
Brakes squeal, intercom blaring, the mass lurches.
Fall into me.
It’s here, and it’s you and me.
Little brother on my arm.
How will you do this after I’ve tossed the cap,
when I’m across the ocean,
and you are alone?
The doors whoosh, people spill onto the platform.
Hot, stale air dries the throat, wets the eyes.
Stuck to my side, you follow
five years behind.
We are carried along, a tide of humanity and time.
Don’t let go.
