“I tattoo an anchor on your back
you sink to the bottom.”
—Ingunn Snædal, “Summer Love”

I try to eavesdrop
inside the Newark Airport.

No one says anything
of interest.

A kid with braces chews his bagel loudly, disgustingly.

Finally, I hear a mother
ask her sons:

“Did no one
eat at home?

In case I didn’t hear her,
she asks again,

shouting with a north Jersey accent:

Forget the question mark.
It’s a declaration.

It’s Palm Sunday.
Passover begins tomorrow.

The sweet and sad parts
of the story to be told.

I overhear myself
talking to myself a few weeks back.

Inside the Keflavík Airport,
the water that comes out

of the Dyson Airblade
is scalding hot

because it’s Iceland.

And the air jets blow water around
like a geyser

because it’s Iceland.

We’ve almost made it
across the Labrador Sea.

Back on US soil far
from anything resembling lava rock,

a toddler kicks a trash can
(or is it a recycle bin), and giggles.

No one says no.
No one says anything.

A man wearing a yarmulke
sits at a table with a boy

in a Yankees cap.
Both redheads.

Emily D. was a redhead.
I saw a curly lock of her hair

yesterday on display
at the Morgan Library.

I could not hear her poems.
The tour guide was speaking too loudly.

I tried not to eavesdrop—
but failed.

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