Checking In

—Anonymous Photo

THE BURN
—Naomi Shihab Nye

Such a swift lump rises in the throat when


a uniformed woman spits Throw it away!


and you tremble to comply wondering why


rules of one airport don’t match another’s,


used to carrying two Ziploc bags not just one


but your pause causes a uniformed man to approach


barking, Is there something you don’t understand?


and you stare at him thinking


So many things, refugees marching


from one parched field to another,


rolled packs on their heads,


burn of ancestors smoldering outside stolen homes,


or you could be six again, yelled at on the playground

by a teacher who knew all the bad things you could do.


You’re pressing little shampoos and face creams


firmly into a single plastic bag, he could slap you.


Sorry, so sorry, not wanting


to give up seven extra bottles of Bliss brand


lemon & sage soapy soap fresh-foaming shower gel


that you tipped the W houseboy into leaving


so you could pretend you live a Happy Hour life


back home, you hope she takes it out of the trash


when you turn away, obviously she needs a relaxing shower


and a stiff gin and he needs something like a long trip


into a country full of foreign soldiers and we all need


to swallow hard again so the lumps dissolve


and pressure eases and our worlds mingle kindly


and he no longer feels the gun in his back.

______________________

—Medusa, with get-well wishes to D.R. Wagner this week, and hopes that he'll be able to join us in the Kitchen soon!