content warning: mental illness, racism, homophobia, d slur

As I wait for my tram
a woman sits next to me.
She cries, moans, curses.
Eyes down, hands knotted,
I ignore her
rather than subject her
to a stranger’s prying.
But then she screams
at two girls
holding a lively conversation
in their native language.

“Speak fucking English!”

I hate confrontation, but before I can think
I react:

“Leave them alone.”

My voice is weak
mild, soft,
pathetic
but still oil to fire.
She springs up, trembling
like a cornered, wounded animal.

“What are you going to
fucking do about it?”

My heart beats frantic and fluttering
because she’s tall,
eyes wide, hands furious
and her skinny arms are corded
with scrawny muscle.
I consider walking away
(I’ve never been in a fight)
before I glance back at the girls
(and their resigned expressions)
and think—this is worth fighting for.
(But God, I’m scared.)

The woman comes close, black tear tracks
of drying mascara on her cheeks.
Closer,
too close—
she could pull out a knife and I would be helpless.

“Fucking tough cunt! Look
at this staunch bitch!”

“Staunch” is so unexpected a word
I can’t help but squint in confusion.

Perhaps she mistakes
bemusement for contempt and—

“Stupid fucking dyke!”

—wipes my fears clean, I can’t help it...
Bisexual and unbothered and more baffled than injured, I laugh.
This infuriates her, and she wails,
stalks away, and I remember
we are on a crowded platform.
One person asks if I’m okay,
but no one asks the two girls
and that woman, so clearly ill,
is still alone.