It’s a bus stop in South America
And crossing five lanes of traffic
At ten in the morning.
It’s quiet,
More than we were expecting.
The taxi is late for arrival and I am thankful for every second.
It’s not knowing the language
And our tensions so high,
A tennis court in my chest.
Love was being rewritten in my head
You were becoming the epitome of sacrifice.
You asked me what I would answer if you pledged me to marry you.
I said I’d wait a few years
And that was the correct response.
It’s a man in a bulletproof vest asking you the intention of your visit,
To give her hope.
We cross out of the city.
There are dogs on rooftops,
We are sharing headphones
And the glass begins to fog in the humid jungle evening.
Whatever home there is left
I find it as I lay my head on your shoulder.
There is a song humming subtly over the foreign soap opera on the TV.
It’s not quite your taste
But it is my favorite.
You will be able to sleep on the plane
And I won’t ever again for the next two years.
Ky Pacheco is a burgeoning southwest poet from Flagstaff, AZ. Her work has
previously been published in the 2024 Flagstaff Cycle-zine. She works
seasonally as a wildlife biologist for the Forest Service. Insta @kyssocks