Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
“If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately.”

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,”
said the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
“Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him.”

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to 
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just 
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I 
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,
answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—
by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,
some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-
tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about
any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

The dive starts 
on the board…. 
                                                                     
something Steve
often said,

or Rub some dirt 
in it, Princess, 
when in his lesser

inscrutable mood;                         

Steve of the hair gel, 
and whistle, a man 
who was her 
                                                           
diving coach, 
who never seemed
to like her much.

Which was odd,

given, objectively, 
her admirable discipline, 
and natural gifts,

the years and years                                                           
of practice, and the long                                                           
row of golden 
trophies she won 
                                                                     
for his team. The girl 
she was then,

confused, partly 
feral, like the outdoor 
cat you feed,

when you remember 
to, but won’t allow

to come inside….

She’s thinking of Steve 
now, many years 
later, while swimming

naked in her wealthy 
landlord’s pool. Or

“grotto,” to call it 
properly, an ugly, 
Italian word for

something lovely,

ringed, as it is, 
with red hibiscus;                                                  

white lights 
in the mimosa trees                                                                   
draping their blurry 
pearls along 
the water’s skin.

It’s 3 am,

which seemed 
the safest time for 
this experiment,

in which she’s turned 
her strange and aging 
body loose. Once,

a man she loved 
observed, You’re 
the kind of woman

who feels embarrassed 
just standing in 

a room alone, 
a comment, like him, 
two parts ill spirited,

and one perceptive.

But this night she’s 
dropped her robe,                                                             
come here to be

the kind of woman 
who swims naked                                                              
without asking 
for permission, risking 
a stray neighbor

getting the full gander,

buoyed by saltwater; 
all the tough and sag 
of her softened by

this moonlight’s near- 
sighted courtesy.

Look at her: how 
the woman is floating,

while trying to recall 
the exact last 
moment of her girlhood—

where she was, 
what she was doing—

when she finally 
learned what she’d                                                
been taught: to hate

this fleshy sack 
of boring anecdotes                                                           
and moles she’s lived

inside so long, 
nemesis without                                                                            
a zipper for escape.

A pearl is the oyster’s

autobiography, 
Fellini said. How   
clean and weightless

the dive returns 
to the woman now;

climbing the high 
metal ladder, then

launching herself, 
no fear, no notion

of self-preservation,

the arc of her 
trajectory pretty 
as any arrow’s

in St. Sebastian’s 
side. How keen                                                                               
that girl, and sleek,

tumbling more 
gorgeous than two                                                             
hawks courting

in a dead drop.                                                                             

Floating, the woman 
remembers this again,

how pristine she was 
in pike, or tucked 
tighter than a socialite, or

twisting in reverse 
like a barber’s pole,

her body flying 
toward its pivot, 
which is, in those seconds,

the Infinite,

before each 
possible outcome 
tears itself away

(the woman climbing 
from the water now)

like the silvery tissue 
swaddling a costly 
gift.