You call yourself brave.
By Nora Smith

Are you?

As the father
driving his wife
and newborn child
through the haze
of morning light
no helmets,
mirrors, or belts.

As a small boy
still in his school uniform
at 1900. On the back
of a motorbike. His own hands
the only thing between him
and the black river below.

Or the boy’s mother
trusting his life
and her world
to those same hands.

The too old woman
squaring up against the 600
motorbikes at rush hour
brandishing flowers
and plastic sunglasses
for sale. Trying to make
enough for dinner.

The man with 10 gallons
of gas strapped to his engine
or the man bearing the same
weight in eggs.

The man going
the wrong direction
racing into a sea of
headlights. Or the one
going the right direction
facing the same view.

The girl, no more
than 5. A baby
on her hip, herding
dirt smeared toddlers,
like cats up a hill of broken
asphalt, bikes flying
past just centimeters away.

Or the child sent
by desperate parents
to sell tissues and lighters
to towering strangers
with faces of stone
alone.

Are you still Brave?