Jan 152014

by Anne Colwell


We know where we belong.

                        We walk over to them, the tall balding man

            who didn’t want the peanuts, the family

                        with four kids in matching tee shirts,

the woman who paced the aisles the whole ride

                                    from Phoenix. And who are we, I wonder.

            The middle-aged couple who held hands,

            the loud talkers? It doesn’t matter,

now we gather in a circle

             around a silver spinning, stand by the rail like communicants.

                        From above us, hands restore what we’ve

                                    packed and parted with, what we imagined

                                                we’d need for where we’re going or where

                                                            we’ve been, what we dress ourselves, bathe

                                                                        ourselves, see ourselves in.

We crowd tight, almost touching,

            watch as backpacks, skis, suitcases

                        hit the bumper, spin


inside our silver circle

                                    where a siren has called us, a flashing light.


Like children we’ve left

                        at summer camp and come to retrieve,

                                    packed full of new things, different

                                     than when we let them go,

                                                more like each other than we’d imagined.