- Passport Control
What brings you to this country?
My mother once told me that my breath is strong enough to diamond a grain of sand.
What is the nature of your visit?
After the plane took off, I felt gravity surrender. There is no safety.
How long will you be here?
It depends on what you consider love? It could be days, or something brief said through glass.
What are your plans?
The cabin steamed as we passed the equator. All my plans got wet, and I was showered with a warm mist.
What hotel are you staying in?
Another room is the same as the first. If I close my eyes, I am back in my boyhood bedroom, years collapsing under my feet.
Will you be traveling outside the country?
I learn borders like some men learn kitchens—blundering through the knife-edged drawers and slicing my fingers like cherries. I tend to leave stains.
Have a good stay.
My body is awake. There are birds that only follow rivers. They alight on small rocks and feed on the wing in the glare of the morning sun. [End Page 592]
jona colson’s work has appeared in Subtropics, Prairie Schooner, and The Writer’s Chronicle. He teaches at Montgomery College in Maryland and lives in Washington, D.C.