The wiping of our mouths,
the fidgeting of fingers,
betray our greatness,
a mother and son at a table,
in the polished calamity
of an airport, sipping coffee
from little paper cups.
We tremble over dirt roads
and wedding stories towards
the boarding call. We resonate
with fights about old curfews
and messy rooms that almost
make it past the nervous grace
in our lips.
When the announcement hits
we look at each other, finally,
then rise up like shipwrecks
full of grandeur, and at this moment
money is nothing, rolls of bills,
promises, and writing on bits of paper
float between us.
Our embrace is a submergence,
the noise pressed from us, then
the aching pull, the tender lull
when you let me go, knowing
I’ve held something back;
and what I’ve kept I hope
will keep me afloat.
As appeared in the collection Leaning into the Mountain (Fooliar Press)