by Andrea Farrell
I hate it when people offer to let me feel their faces.
“That’s not really necessary,” I mutter, and go red as an apple,
whatever that means.
Today the bus driver is new. He asks my stop,
and insists on making robust announcements of our exact location
every 30 seconds.
Even though I can feel the shadows of the skyscrapers as they pass over us,
like his eyes in the mirror.
The only face I have ever touched is my mother’s, but the memory has faded.
When I think about her now,
I remember the way she would clear her throat in the middle of the night,
And as I breathe in, I smell dried lavender.