Renee LaBonte-Jones

 “Ascension as a Mixed-Bag” 

The elevators are cramped, and frightfully fast, 

And every day I stand rigid as thirty-five floors shift to below me. 

There are loads of men, who flit through the building, 

Up and down and up and down—

They enter after me and stand near the front.

Then they wait for me to pass, because for them it is polite,

For them it is polite,

For them it is polite. 

And they’ll get a good look at my ass as I walk ahead. 

They have no sense of space. 

They stand blocking my way through the door,

Sweeping their hand and saying “after you, after you.” 

But there is nowhere for me to go. 

There are rows of them stacked in front of me,

And they are blocking the door. 

I’ll take efficiency over politeness: 

move, 

move, 

please move, 

Stop blocking the door— 

This does not happen in the elevators filled with women, 

With nine of us, crammed like sardines, in three rows of three— 

with our elbows grazing and our bags bumping. 

It is so calm; it is so safe, 

I can breathe.

We all step aside when stopped at someone’s floor. 

None of this “After you, after you,” 

We get out of the way, 

We prioritize mobility, 

We smile as we pass.