so
we drive
with our red
blinking lights, wax
molassing our chins,
sinking heat spells. light moults
off your blonde hair, until our
warm bodies, ambering mid-fall,
absorbs the noise, slanting underground.
We Don’t Stop Here
Maxine Chen (he/they) thinks every poem is a trans poem, unless it’s a trans poem, in which case it’s about the opposite of absence. He can be found dozing off on the late bus, about to miss their stop. Wake him up?