I don’t like traveling.
Foreign domestic eyes twitch when it occurs
again that I’m always going to look like a tourist,
that maybe I should just embrace it and wear a fanny-pack
everywhere, pause to photograph the
odd numbering on busses I ride every day.
At my destination,
realize I’ve brought along more than I meant to pack,
things I didn’t even know I owned.
Beneath a pair of shower shoes is a pervasive sense of longing,
my plastic vitamin bottle holds staccato bursts of birthing pains,
folded into my sweater is a tongue that will not fold
to pronounce the name no longer on my luggage tag,
and by my toothbrush is a growing sense of doubt that that was even my name to begin with.