At the Barcelona Airport
She pushes her luggage cart
through the concourse, tissue to her eyes.
I barely notice she’s crying until
I roll past her with my carry-on.
Her blouse is wrinkled, hair uncombed
and a long sweater wraps itself
around her waist in a hug – remnants
maybe from the Atlanta red-eye.
As I look over my shoulder
she pauses, leans on her cart heaped
with a satchel and two huge bags
and seems to compose herself.
She changes her pace intermittently,
checks her phone, then glances
at the glass ceiling as if dawn
signals relief. I feel better
hoping her despair has eased.
Was it bad news from home?
A break-up with her partner?
The death of a loved one?
I want to intrude, ask several
none-of-your-business questions,
text the sad scene to friends I’m meeting
in Madrid – but I won’t. Certain grief
moves on wheels, brakes for no reason,
then veers off, carrying its weight
to an unexpected exit. At my gate, I see her
pass by again as I queue up for boarding –
her head still bowed as she turns
a sharp corner near the duty-free shop
and disappears down the escalator.
I want her to be on a flight to Istanbul,
where continents meet in narrow straits,
cross over to each other freely, even if
some cargo is never fully unloaded.
*
Necessary Matter
No matter how a freakish snowfall
burdens the mesquite tree that leans
so heavily it bows to the equinox.
No matter that the palo verde in the median
can’t bear the weight of change,
halves itself so one shaft survives.
No matter that mourning doves tell me
they are contented with rainfall,
with each other, with their calling.
What matters is the moment
before absence, when recollection swells
amid breakdown, when there’s nothing
beyond horizon but sky. That’s when
there is no loss, only precedent
for grief—unbounded, sacred.
I want to tell you when my best friend died,
I wasn’t there. My phone rang off-key,
rattled and clicked like slipping breath.
There were only liminal spaces before
that winter, half of us bending toward earth
like a snow-laden trunk.
And in the moments after snow melts,
rivers come alive, reservoirs re-fill,
depth gradually returns.
*
Pulling Over
The figure emerges in the rearview mirror
shadowed by a dimly lit sunset,
a gentle distraction from the miles ahead.
It may be my father, guiding
my young hands on the wheel, teaching
me to steer into the oncoming turn
or showing me how to change oil,
replace worn tires, tune the engine
so all the pieces work in unison.
Though it could be my mother extending
her forearm in front of my chest,
a maternal seatbelt holding me away
from the dashboard, inches from my head.
But most likely, it’s you in mirrored glass
waving hello and goodbye, smiling
as I drive our Impala, the one
with fins, wind finding open windows,
you sitting next to me, never wanting an exit.
Your hand caresses my neck
while you proclaim our road as endless.
I hear you again, humming to the radio
like tread on pavement, a white noise
of comfort that lingers as I drive,
decelerating as tires swerve to the shoulder.
Idling there in the moment, I remember
how much I wanted to write this down
before I forgot how far we’d driven.
*
Alan Perry is a poet and editor whose debut chapbook, Clerk of the Dead, was a finalist and honorable mention in the Cathy Smith Bowers Poetry Competition and was released by Main Street Rag Press in 2020. He is a founder and Co-Managing Editor of RockPaperPoem, a Senior Poetry Editor for Typehouse Magazine, and a Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Tahoma Literary Review, Third Wednesday, Ocotillo Review, Panoply, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and elsewhere. Alan holds a BA in English from the University of Minnesota, and he and his wife divide their time between a suburb of Minneapolis, MN and Tucson, AZ. More at: alanperrypoetry.com