Christmas Eve is a hive of frustration.
Snowstorms in Denver or endangered birds
nesting in Chicago—reasons. Bags all
checked thru. Feliz Navidad card from her
domestic worker (more a friend really)
in the carry-on. Phone dead but nothing
(now that there is something) to text. Cannot
even in the anxiety form a
complete thought. She was going back any-
way—wasn’t she?—with good reports, making
good money with good friends. Going back now,
more a child than ever, caught out despite
having practiced off and on now and then
for the eventualities of ill-
ness, then (probably) more illness and the
non-alternatives that precede the deaths
Runways haze into the sun-
If she presses against the plate glass,
she might see the ocean. Almost, she thinks,
the panic cascading, almost made it.
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