Queen of Silence

I am thankful just
to breathe
this air.

Raindrops splash puddles on my new black glasses
and I follow, dressed in black,
a stormcloud of Danes crossing the street to Nørreport Station.

Klokken 16, 4 pm, and they've just gotten off work,
hurrying home to families who will greet them
with more than the sorrowful grunts
I am used to.

I stomp over the construction site,
down stairs marked yellow,
and stroll toward Spor 4.

The S-Tog to Farum will whoosh forward
in a rush of underground air
in exactly 1 minute.
Destinations: Østerport, Nordhavn, Svanemøllen,
and a long list of others I can only attempt
to form
with my American mouth.
I am silent.

Books open, headphones on,
laptops whirring, chewing silent,
the people on the train gaze downward.
I hold on to a pole and sway,
gazing out the rainstreaked windows,
wondering if I see what they see:

a new land
swallowing me whole,
hours left to go,
and a fuchsia backpack the size of a koala
to prove it.

I do not know the names
of any Danes I pass-
red shoes, acid washed jeans,
sheets of blonde hair dancing over hoods.

I haven't become one of them, but I move with them-
creep toward the green light with them,
look both ways and run for it with them,
offer the redhead mom with drooping eyelids
a passing grin when she catches my gaze
from the next compartment.

You are just a girl,
the playground boy band shouted
as I lined up to shoot a ricocheting hoop.

But they were wrong.
I am a queen among puddles,
a sycamore in bloom,
but I won't provide your shade.

With every step I feel more full-
full of adventure, though I am not
always on the edge of my seat.
Full like a five course meal,
splayed out on my new red couch
like my grandma of a calico cat.

A young helmeted boy waits
as I instagram the stormy sky
over Tåsingegade.

I offer a grin that he doesn't return
- like most Danes -
and propel myself forward,
away from echoing Americans
who don't know
that being silent
is the greatest thing you can offer.

Shower empowerment

it’s 11:03 am.

i should be in class, but

it’s like my body knows it’s a holiday

and somehow, i can’t get out of bed

on valentine’s day.

today my valentine is a country away,

but it’s been done before.

overpriced danish shampoo –

for “normal” hair –

squirts into my open left palm

my square palm, earth,

according to those palm memes

suds spring up as i scrub

my palms together, then

pull them apart to stare.

these are the same palms that

pressed sweaty against yours

at that potter con in 2010.

these are the same palms

that gripped a cold, wet can of coke

forgetting my hatred of cold, wet things;

i was too preoccupied with your calm face

on that white porch swing

with the big cushion that kept sliding off.

these are the same hands that trailed

along your waist

freshman year, room 302.

and my pride grows wings larger than a phoenix’s

thinking of conquered chemistry worksheets,

algebra exams, internet fights, and

the way your eyebrows crumbled

all under my fingers

when you said you weren’t sure

if you could live how you wanted.

you couldn’t come out, but now you’re going

to german pride.

with these hands i couldn’t catch

a football in seventh grade,

“i’m vegan,” i told mr. munson.

“what’s a vug-an?” he replied, eyebrows

knitting as he chuckled.

these hands wrote novels, stirred 4 am pasta,

stitched my bleeding heart back together again.

they picked up the phone and dialed you

to tell you i needed to hear your voice.

i am just taking a shower,

kneading suds in my tangled, windswept,

slept-on hair and feeling the power of doing.

because i can do everything on my own

with these two hands.

just tell me when, and they’ll be there

ready to mold and shape life

to how we’ve always wanted

it is valentine’s day

and i am just skipping class

but i am lucky to have these hands

on this earth

with this “normal” hair

and 6 months until i see you again