Arrivals Gate

Exhaustion smears purple welts under my son’s eyes,
while this queue in customs slowly measures on. Blankly,
his clutching weight demands an answer.
My hand rasps his apple pure cheek. He hasn’t yet learned
relationships are lessons in becoming more alone. The means to survive,
when begging arms stretch out for the more
I want to keep for myself.

You’ll be there. You always are.
I cannot say you ever fail to wait, to remember trash day,
understand interest rates, the rice cooker.
But, which you will be out there waiting?
Every anniversary a shudder of friction.
The tectonic abrasion away, back, return, and back and over again.
We’re other people now.

The door slides, I hip hitch, stagger lift my boy, and tug the cases forward.
Each drab, epoxy square, a space to renew from the inside,
a careful reposition of what should happen, of nice things to say,
the script, the vows, the arrival.

A suffusion of light our child scatters he races
bellows in recognition
cracks the airport crowds
our contrail our anthem our pounding
misstep rhythm leaves seismic stillness
everyone freezes our moment one heartclap
—you and I travel on again.