somewhere in the middle of march

a month. it's only been a month.

on the subway, there is staring.
whitefaced perfect bangs
pointing the word "really" on repeat.
they discuss her
they decide she is chinese
words whispered lower just in case.

clinging with one hand to an overhead handle
to this hallway of bodies
she finds herself
out.

as a child
there was nowhere to map this in her mind.
a small black dot
between fields semicircling outwards
colored corn or soy or wheat
another creek, another barn.
another sequence of proud white skin
worn knuckles on her neck.

here in a country growing higher by the year,
up instead of out
she is anything but home.