I packed her half-bag, a slouchy

duffel filled the rest of the way

with cold winter air and B.O.

We got into the Lexus and drove

to the airport, forty minutes

in traffic without chatting.

She stared out the window away

from my rigid face, her freckled

nose pressed to the glass,

which I’d clean when I got home.

I carried her bag so she wouldn’t

forget it and come back. Her thin

inner arms, scored as if by fork tines,

were wrapped tight as cellophane

in a vinyl windbreaker. “I’ll call you,”

she said, as she came to the snaked

security line. I dropped the shoulder

strap and pushed the bag forward

with my foot. “We should try

to stay in touch,” she added and

gripped the ticket I’d bought her,

and the boarding pass fluttered

between her bitten nails.

I kissed her hair, barely a brush,

and palmed her scrawny butt once.

I turned my back as she walked

through the arch, and the metal

detector admitted her without

complaint: discalced and coinless;

no watch, ring or keys.

2005