You in Transit

For the last time
alarmed, by the flight of your own words
you pick up your passport,
reach for a far off place
where you don’t speak the language,

where you walk naked
into the mothering hands of a tropical sea,
unspool the history of a long-ago lover
left in another country
after a monochromatic embrace on a railway platform

under a feverish forehead of sky
criss-crossed by jets and coastguard helicopters
stunned by the sound of your voice.
You leave no survivors no
vapour trail

only a terminal diagnosis, only
the utter weariness of god, and you
beautiful
and dying
for the first time.

- K. V. Skene