Americans have an invisible social buffer,
a P.E. teacher of mine once called it our “safety circle.”
Americans do not like to have their safety circles
invaded. A purse brushed against our backs, an elbow
pressed to the soft of our upper arms: these things make us twinge,
suck in our breath and count to ten.

On the bus at noon, this circle dissipates
into a hashed circumference, then a dotted line, then a squiggle,
until finally, foreign backpacks make friendly with the skin
we just showered, and the scents of odd cooking, cheap perfumes
and dirt, thick dirt, rub against us from all sides.
The bus jostles, and honks hang in the air with the thick
of scent. Eyes, we’re being checked out by sets of eyes
all running together. We pray for a seat to vacate.
When it does we grab our books from our bags
and we spread them wide, inviting no one.