At JFK
by Joel Vega

 

Because my name is Sultan
they yanked me out of the queue.
I had to take off my shoes,
reverse my socks. Unbelted,
I lowered my trousers to my knees,
exposed my pockets, unbuttoned
my shorts, surrendered
my pen. 

Who were my contacts?
Do I wear contacts?
Remove your contacts.
I did. Put them in plastic
cases. I did. No liquids allowed.
No smoking, no phone calls.
My passport scanned and fingered,
I faced a fusillade of questions:
What who where why
when, when, when, how,
I told them who I am,
where I’ve been, where I‘m going,
how I packed my suitcase,
shirts first, underwear last,
two pairs of toothbrushes,
creams, gels, AC/DC
converter, hairspray, foot
powder. I told them all, I turned
myself inside out like a mussel
displaying hairy gills. I listed my aliases,
Robert, Bobby, Bob, Bo. My lives
in California, New York, Texas,
my previous lives in New Hampshire, my divorce,
my parent’s divorce, my grandparent’s
divorce, my sister’s ex-husband’s divorce,
I was a singing canary on their plates
but where are the spoons,
the forks, the table napkins?
Why do they finger sharp, pointed
plastic toothpicks? 
Why do they poke and pick
on morsels trapped between
rabid teeth?

© Joel Vega

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