Every couple weeks I'd call,
"My shoot's running late,"
but instead of rushing home to pull a chicken out of the fridge
and listen to the story of someone else's day,
I'd hide out in the shops of Kemps Corner
pulling together a wardrobe for my new life
secreted home in my makeup bag.
A bikini dotted with butterflies.
A tulle skirt studded with sequins--
little constellations mapping the late night flight.
A vibrator, Brancusi-smooth freedom wand,
humming my secret song of independence.
After everyone had gone to sleep,
each piece would find its way into a valise
in the back of my closet.
A Samonsite nicked from the prop room
that reminded me of an old TV commercial
when suitcases seemed like a necessary accessory
to international glamour
like gold-tipped cigarettes or designer jeans.
Do you know what comes between me and my Calvins?
Do you know the name for the drippy, slippery, atomic bomb between my legs?
And the urge that sends my fingers reaching for the button
with increasing frequency?
As the birthday cards go unwritten,
and the self-help books on the nightstand collect dust.
Is it just a small strip of denim that I can easily cut away
to relieve the pressure of belonging to everyone but myself?
I've packed up months of scarves and courage and panties,
passport and coconut water provisions in hand.
Standing at the gate of my aluminum chrysalis,
for a 13-hour trans-Pacific metamorphosis,
I'm throbbing and pulsing with the orgasm of my rebirth.
I feel like vagabond go-go dancer, gyrating and panting in Terminal B,
my palms travel to my breasts, my hips,
and I give the ticket agent a little electric shock
as I hand over my boarding pass.