BUSH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
cities to love,
lovers to call home,
beneath the gathering Texas clouds,
in endless neon corridors
of homeland security,
when will I feel myself
Reentering this country without baggage
I am a too-light traveler for comfort.
State the purpose of your trip, its length,
intention, secret motives, true confessions.
What did you take? What did you leave behind?
The purpose of my trip was pleasure. I took:
my clothes and left five pounds,
my e-mail scrawled on napkins,
a fading self that’s climbing still the winding street
rising from Christ’s Blood up Temezcuitate
like the phantom at our school,
a thin lanky girl in a white shift,
asking others what they’re doing there.
I’m smuggling pictures of my other half,
the undeclared alien, my stranger self
who lives abroad and meets with me at last.
And look, a bundle of explosives—
love letters to foreign nationals and nations
who live still at my address
and cross your borders.
Our foreign selves
slip through your monitors
without a trace.
fiction poetry "fact" photography