As we took the train from Edgewood
to Washington, an old man
in a red sweater sat next to us,
each fold of his cheeks crushed
into the next like weathered planks.
Twice, I glanced at him, tried
to prevent myself from staring until he
got off at the next station, and you kissed
me without warning. The train was
ringing and chugging, the world
moving like a body around us. Liltingly,
you stood, left a trail of vertigo behind
you. I wish I could tell you what I thought
about as I rode alone to my stop. All
the years I could count with our faces.
Jenna Nesky is an autistic, Jewish, bisexual teen writer and poet. She is in tenth grade at Carver Center for Arts and Technology in the literary prime. From Maryland, she turns sixteen this year.