You come out of the plane like a man
unpacked.
The air—
a thousand lungs
grabbing for it,
and you.
Here is the line,
the bag,
the tired woman ahead of you
holding a travel brochure.
Outside,
engines turn,
drivers calling names,
a loose arrangement of order.
You stand for a second too long.
Then you move.
The Grab driver drives in silence.
A rosary swings from the mirror.
Jeepneys coughing out smoke,
billboards with white teeth
promising something clean.
You are
displaced.
You tell him to stop at a bar.
It seems necessary.
Inside:
dying light,
the particular sadness of early drinking.
A television flickers.
The first drink goes down too fast.
The second—
By the third,
you begin to feel located again—
not here, exactly,
but somewhere
less exposed.
Later,
the hotel room.
A keycard,
a corridor,
other people.
You sit on the edge of the bed
for a long time.
Shoes still on.
You lie back,
focusing on the ceiling.
You think, briefly,
this is how it starts—
not with arrival,
but with giving in
to wherever you’ve landed.
There is a knock on the door.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
