The people’s chauffeur rushes through traffic, Diablo Rojo
clips off cars. Packs in people and more people.
Apurate mamí,
the driver pleads, then turns up his radio.
I know I’m slower than the abuelas who know
how to rush a bus, juggle coins and cash.
After a week in Panamá, I learn everyone
calls you mamí.
I want to say I’m no one’s mamí.
I remember grandma’s words to grandpa,
I’m no one’s nana.
Inside the bus there’s just enough room to hold hands,
feet, legs, shoulders, and arms stiff like toy soldiers.
There’s no room to breathe or relax.
Definitely no space to sway or dance.
My sister ignores the crush of bodies, shows she can
cha cha to Sandra Sandoval. One small step forward,
three back. Until the next stop pushes her to a halt.
A woman grabs her bags and children. Her blue-
shadowed eyes motion for me to take her seat.
I stand and sway.
Music makes room on a crowded bus in Panamá.
