play cousins

i’m waiting for my plane at gate B7, and the lady 

next to me is shuffling tofu bites around in her bowl, 

as if convincing herself of a garden. she arrives 

at the finger. she steers. i fumble with the dial 

on my suitcase lock, crowding its patterned gaze. 

the vodka in my body arrows toward the center, 

interested in itself, and suddenly i’m breathing 

in active voice. is it foolish to clear the muscle, 

volunteer to sit in the exit seat by a tilted 

wall? three hands shoot up. they’re given 

instructions on how to line heaven. i look around

at everyone—that these would be the last faces 

i’d see, white as air from a rifle. i stand tighter to myself. 

i touch the light that distracts the light.