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.
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