En Route to Bangladesh, Another Crisis of…

—at Dubai International Airport and ending with a line by César Vallejo

Because I must walk

through the eye-shaped

shadows cast by these

curved gold leaves thick

atop each constructed

palm tree, past displays

of silk scarves, lit

silhouettes of blue-bottled

perfume—because

I grip, as though for the first

time, a paper bag

of french fries from McDonald's,

and lick, from each fingertip,

the fat and salt as I stand alone

to the side of this moving

walkway gliding me past dark-

eyed men who do not look

away when I stare squarely

back—because standing

in line to the restroom I want

only to pluck from her

black sweater this one shimmering

blond hair clinging fast—

because I must rest the Coke, cold

in my hand, beside this

toilet seat warmed by her thighs,

her thighs, and hers.

Here, at the narrow mouth

of this long, humid

corridor leading to the plane,

I take my place among

this damp, dark horde of men

and women who look like me—

because I look like them—

because I am ashamed

of their bodies that reek so

unabashedly of body—

because I can—because I am

an American, a star

of blood on the surface of muscle.

Source: Seam (Southern Illinois University Press, 2014)