Transit

In transit in Frankfurt airport halfway 
through her journey to America, 
she waits in the sheared hours of the morning
before the grey stalls open. 

At the end of the corridor where 
the phones stand back to back she presses 
into a booth and dials the long number for home.

The delay in the call is one beat too long,
enough to jerk apart the words.
Is that you? Where are you now?

She hears the voices she has left and realizes, 
where she is going she knows no one.
As the phone card marks the passing of silence,
she sinks to the floor
through the open borders of the self.

Then there is time only to say, 
I am fine. I leave in an hour,
and step into the irreversible day.