I wrapped my arms around his chest, hands resting below his heart
As I climbed on the bike. Brenden, tall Irish boy, who I met 3 weeks ago
He pressed against the thin Ugandan man, the boda boda driver,
propriety saying Brenden takes that spot
between “his” woman and unfamiliar man.
The weight of 3 bodies on this bike, I give in to shared shifts
I give in to intimacy of my hands on his body
I give in to the risk of chaotic traffic, our legs feeling the heat
of cars passing, so close. My hands anchors
This point of contact
The heat of all of us speeding forward
Whatever happens now, I just need to show up for it
Take your feet off the ground. Flying by
young men with machine guns, another boda boda
carrying a small wooden coffin, vertical tied to the driver’s back,
a woman crouched in a field wearing a donated bridesmaid dress,
sunny yellow against burnt orange earth
bikes stacked so high with bananas they have to be pushed like a cart
And my hands connecting to a body
Surrender in a way I had never known
If we crash, there is no ambulance
If we break down, we walk
Whatever happens, take this ride
Heart beating, mind not knowing
Look at these faces speeding by, these fragile bodies
Raise your hand, smile
This is always so, choosing to trust
someone you barely know, your bodies at risk,
separate pasts irrelevant in this coming together
Keep your hand open, spread it wide over a heart
This moment we depend on each other
(Melissa Fritchle, 2020)