When

the best part of surviving is
silence, when the tango between
you and the blonde middle-aged
woman in the bathroom hallway
ends in a stalemate instead of a
spin, when she decides not to
point you towards the men’s room
or point you out to her daughter as
what not to be when she grows up.
when the waiter decides not to
play devil’s advocate and refers to
your group as folks instead of
ladies; when your devil is off for
the night and a stranger tells your
father that his son looks just like
him. the best part is the quiet
between the seconds, the lull
between the lines when someone
clocks your leather boots and the
posture you adopt to hide your
chest and chooses not to toe the
line today. the best part is when
you are the best kind of haunted
lucky that no one challenges;
when instead, you are a
challenger, exploding into stillness
upon stillness upon stillness stored
in your soul.