Making T'Shuvah for Lying

It can't be called swimming, what
you were doing inside me
tossed about in the warm, dark, salty sea
of my body
over the cold, hard Atlantic.
"Mommy," you chided me,
"you didn't ask if I wanted to go."
I almost jumped from sleep
but the scratchy, stale, slate
blue
wrinkled against my face
reminded me I didn't have a parachute and
reading the card in the seat pocket wasn't
the same as being prepared.

I was two voices.

I recognized you.
Already you had something to say.
Too many words for one lifetime.
I hugged you close and
leaned back like driftwood.

My pills felt at home in a trash bin at Heathrow.
I chose
a pharmacy
in the shadow
of St. Paul's Cathedral as
the alto, baritone, and bass choir sang of female
virginity.

I carried it around in my pack like a promise
before its abandonment in the bathroom of a Scottish pub
the night I turned 30
and my period started three weeks late
and I bought a whisky-flavored condom I'd never use either.

I waited for my baggage to come around on the carousel at MSP.
I thought I was, and then I obviously wasn't. So no worries, right?
I stepped forward and roughly swung the pack - heaved it over a shoulder.
How do you feel? He directed me toward the doors.
I didn't move.
It's not what I want right now. Life is complicated enough.
Definitely.

He kissed my lips a drop-ff good-bye, and they kissed him back while
I watched the rain drip through the air.
Pressing seven days through the foil
one-by-one
I barely let him touch me.

It's only t'shuvah if I tell the whole truth.