Berin Aptoula

Misha Doesn’t Want to Die

When I’m on my way
underground, waiting
for the train to stop,
I’m certain that
something will happen.

Get chased by

homeless men with blunt kitchen knives, get called a bastard by junkies, get senile bitches on your ass every day and you’re left with a love of free entertainment.

When the car tilts,
I jounce,
stagger, my
soles heave,
and I clasp onto

a blonde (minger).

Back when I frequented 96th St. for band practice, I’d take the Bronx-bound 6-train. Sometimes I’d see a woman, probably thirty, blow up her fish face, take out bubblegum lipstick meant for preteen girls, dab it across her lips.

A round man on her right
would blab, gesticulate
about God-knows-what,
and still, I’d find love
down here, down

where anything goes.

On Monday, the Q-train wasn’t in service, but the B-train was on its way. Lovers, parents, little kids, college kids waited. They lined up to the graffitied edge, waiting to go home.

Pillars, catching the train;
the other side
stood empty.
Let’s jump
the tracks.

About the Author

A freelance cartoonist and writer, Berin Aptoula (@pilldroid) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. If you’re ever looking for her or find yourself in need of miscellaneous New Wave facts, check your local discotheque for an androgyne grooving under the alias BALKAN VILLAIN.