What are your future travel plans?

I plan to disappear

into the rind of bergamot,

to smuggle my body

through scent of bruised citrus

& wet fig leaf.

No luggage. Just tinctures,

a blade,

a crumpled map of violet-rimmed mouths.

Customs will ask for papers—

I will hand them

the page of a burned book,

my husbands funeral wine  /

& a photo of me

at 7, holding a dead nightingale 

like it might still sing.

I am not going anywhere,

not in the way you mean.

I am returning

to every place I vanished,

to the alley behind the Shanghai train station,

to the bed with the broken headboard in Oaxaca,

to the forest outside Sebastopol / where I slit my name / into the wisteria vine.

Future travel?

I plan to enter the body

of a woman who survived

& ask her to show me

how.