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[I struggled . . .]


I struggled my way onto a packed bus. I became all that surged past the busy roadside markets humming with men pulling rickshaws heavy with bodies. A light breeze from the river was cool on our faces through the open windows. Eager passengers ran alongside us. The bus slowed down. A young man grabbed those arms, pulled them through. The moon filled the dust-polluted sky: a ripe, unsheathed lychee. It wasn't enough light to see clearly by, but I still turned my face toward it.


Tarfia Faizullah

Seam
Southern Illinois University Press


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