an original poem written in response to the Poet to Poet Translation project

She pulls you from the check-in queue
and has you unpack everything,
your souvenirs and smalls, and opens up
your lap-top, key by key, to make
a scrabble for the x-ray screen.
You’re clean.
But all the oleander miles from Tel Aviv,
Ramallah and Jerusalem,
in the back seat of the taxi
you’ve been swallowing your words
in tiny, tidy packages.
Sit tight.
The taxiing is done.
Ignore the balling of your gut.
This must not split nor spill
a second sooner than its time.