Baggage Claim CemeteryWill Grofic
I am here to see what the stones say, the irrigated sayings, the dents we make. Some last— an inscription, an adjective, a noun or two, a testament of young life. The inscription of all the questions, the dates that end and shatter a house of clothes, the windows don’t need windows. The glass will rust. Rows of headstones like a street with no outlet, cars in reverse. Two minds, two neighboring homes, two synapses firing and we reach for the same bag: an error or excess? I sit here with some unattended luggage, a sun past the airport doors looks like that final synapse misfiring. The conveyor belt of constricted cloth, not a terminal home, but like the seasons failing to stop, like fall regrets the daylight or leaves miss spring. Searching each bag, somewhere his suit was unbuttoned, buttons unattended, a mouth, a body that stops reaching. Passengers take what they can from trips. Journeys some say. But some bags shouldn’t be there, and they go around, meaning my bags are doing the same, somewhere else.
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