DEPARTURES

 DEPARTURES

How far away are you-
The question nags like jet lag in the bones.
I smile at the telephone, reminding me of you:
that crackle with your voice across the miles—
the actual, the metaphorical span
between your city and my rented rooms,
between the woman that I am and am.
I’ve learned the etiquette of airport bars,
the small talk with the stranger in 12B,
the way goodbyes can harden into scars
that itch when weather changes. Better me
for weeping openly on platforms where
the trains announce departures like a dare. Love comes in anyway, unheralded,
when low light settles on the kitchen sill
and I am cataloguing all I’ve dreaded:
the life half-lived, the ordinary thrill
of coffee shared, not gulped between flights.
Send me the miles. I’ll follow where you are
through customs queues and unfamiliar nights
where bodies map each other, near and far.
The red-letter day turns indigo;
I bargain with whatever gods attend
such longings. Still, the stubborn habit grows
to choose you daily, choose and choose again.
Many the miles. The heart’s arithmetic
adds them and carries over. I am sick with wanting what the miles both give and take.
Yet here I am, bag packed, the ticket bought,
spreading what love I have for your sake
across the continents. It is not for naught,
this calculus of absence. In the end,
perhaps the distance sharpens what we hold:
your hand’s particular weight, the way you bend
your head to laughter, sudden, bright, and bold.
I’ve had my share of “take care” and goodbyes,
have cried the tears that clarify the sight.
Now send me miles enough to recognize
the woman traveling toward your light.
How far? As far as love requires. I go,
and going, find the life I didn’t know.