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.