[The Chorus Catalogs the Passengers' Possessions]
by Shanley Poole
Of course they packed
beyond the list. Tucked talismans
inside steel-towed boots. Pocketed
ancestral possessions. A surgeon
smuggled her father’s pearl
cufflinks. A nurse: seaglass. Ran nail
across chalky face when everything
felt too sleek. The chemist brought
six ounces of weed. Zigzags, unbleached. All
the goods stacked to some portrait.
Some meaning. A milkweed pod, not yet
flayed, hiding all the soft
it carried. The check point officer averted
notice, garrisoned his own contraband:
A wedding ring with no credentials.
His wife had stayed behind,
buried in a plot he’d considered
accompanying. An engineer stowed the canvas
their granddad wore hunting. Two had unsigned papers,
a divorce still pending. An orphaned
mother: an imprint of baby’s
hands and feet. Wild irises plucked
from a favorite park. Pressed
between the split-spined pages of Gibran.
There were those that clung
to sports teams: Braves hat, Aston Villa
jersey. Even an athlete with their own
medal from the Olympics—2018. More than one
senator couldn’t part with the autograph
of some MVP. The techs stowed
weighted dice, worn
Renos, chips. A shot
glass from Venice Beach. Faux rabbit
foot. Family Crest. An unplanned
pregnancy. Handwritten Christmas
punch recipe—the secret
ingredients: cardamom, sorrel, a pour
of raw sugar. Prayer
flags, fated for a windless
post. Tarot deck. One card
short. Fool missing.