This is what it’s like, leaving New York:
Never has the sun been shining
As the cab drives across 96th Street and heads for the airport.
Don’t you think it odd that after all these trips
I’ve never left in sunshine?
The flights are always long and uneventful,
Because even when there’s turbulence
It’s never matched the violence that leaving is to me.
Most of the time I can suppress the loss
Or stow it underneath the seat like so much carry-on baggage,
Though sometimes it comes and sits on me,
And then I sigh or silently sob
All the while thinking how silly I am – which doesn’t help –
Until once the woman next to me confessed concern.
Now I try to be adult by remembering things like
When my mother was my age she had a husband and five children
And no opportunities to carry on like this.
(My God, how do you suppose she did it?)
Finally touching down – it seems there is no sun on either coast –
Homecoming always heals the hurt
But traps inside the wound a little of the germ.
I spend the next week with a cold
While my body aches to heal the loss I cannot reach.
