I'm Tarfia Faizullah.  I'm going to read the last poem in my first book Seam and it actually doesn't have a title.  It's just this little prose peace that ends the collection but it's a poem that was connected to a memory I have of being in Bangladesh and being amid a lot of chaos but still feeling a kind of peace of mind.

I struggled my way onto a packed bus.  I became all that surged past
the busy roadside markets humming with men pulling rickshaws
heavy with bodies.  A light breeze from the river was cool on our faces
through the open windows.  Eager passengers ran alongside us.  The 
bus slowed down.  A young man grabbed those arms, pulled them
through.  The moon filled the dust-polluted sky: a ripe, unsheathed
lychee.  It wasn't enough light to see clearly by, but I still turned my 
face toward it.