“Shalom,” called the pink-shirted man in the Oceanic
Terminal of Heathrow, and I snapped,
“I do not want to talk to you.” Manic
with fear, I extended one pointy-tipped shoe, tapped
the message home. My cases bulged with the wrong
clothes, every outfit trimmed with clipped
English, fit for telephone jobs on Long
Island. Rwanda, Algeria, and me
declaring every kind of independence.
My skirt and I were green, not the pretty
pistachio that Jacqueline Kennedy wore,
but the color copper develops in the sea,
cold and unfortunate, the green of storms
that have never squalled before. My hat,
gloves, and I were pale, not plush like the warm
blonde women settling in their seats
and bubbling dipthongs to their husbands;
not even poignant, like the champagne satin
that Marilyn Monroe was buried in.
Just neutral, stale as a biscuit, off
as an old cup of milk. I was stubborn,
I would do what I said and leave
England. I would ride that El Al jet, mystery
novel in hand and never grieve.
Johnny Carson, The Jetsons, and me.
A new wardrobe in cartoon hues. Meanwhile,
my row-mate slipped off her court shoes, free
toes wiggling in hose. “We all went to Israel,
almost all of us on the flight, and are returning
to South Carolina,” she explained in a drawl
that frightened me more that the turbofan
wailing beneath us. In her sundress, her stomach
looked soft. Ungirdled? Does everyone chat with a twang,
even the Jews? I do not want to talk,
but here I am, midair. “Coffee,” I replied
to the hostess, slowly. I will never wear slacks,
but I can unfasten each word, open it wide.