From Issue 12: Continued

Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad   We slid in our seats, grips slipped violently from poles as the train broke speed, without the measured slow to the station In the last cart we looked through windows to graffiti tunnels, waiting for the whir of conductor’s script to rouse rush hour exhaustion But the hum of operation ceases, commands passengers to hurry to the small piece of platform And like impatient children on a school trip, we heave ahead, keeping doors in between open with tired elbows, while track maps lose the trace of tourist fingers Then the piercing warning of the orange vest…

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