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An evening bus
Rebecca Vedavathy
No! The men who held the handlebar with one hand 
didn’t grab my callipygian behind stuffed in a figure hugging 
pair of blue jeans, your mother warned me against wearing. 
No! They did not grope my double D cup breasts in their sweaty 
after-work palms slicing their hands into my fleshy softness 
to hustle a taste. 
No! They did not hungrily graze their bodies against my 
size 12 figure to feel a rush of blood in their 
sleazy leather buckled pants. 
What they did instead was stand piously away from me 
and waited
lurked in cardinal longing for the chart busting  music to change tune, 
for the brake pedals to be punctuated 
with just the right period
for Newton’s inertia to take charge 
for earth’s balance to steer into the algebraic RHS
a syntactic shift 
where the I in my consent became theirs to give
where they became the subject to my verb’s accord
so that jiggling their gastric bellies into my steatopygic ass
was acceptable
running their obese eyes down my t-shirt crammed with two bouncing breasts 
was consequence 
jerking in to accidently stroke my small concave back
was reflex. 
All divine design to violate my body 
where assent takes the shape of a guillotined (wo)man
and my muffled voice
caught in the crosshairs 
always religiously imploring
intent or accident
intent or accident?

saima afreen
rinzu rajan
vinita agrawal poetry
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