I didnít mean to wear these lace-up boots,

forgot I had to take my shoes off, forgot

this trip from Washington to California

would take six additional hours standing

in line with sweaty armpits, stinky feet,

and threats of prongs into sensitive areas.

Search my medications, cross-examine me

for hours, this search callous against

my being by guards with power-ons.

They earn minimum wage, want a gun

to do their job well. So shot me,

a terrorist traveler carrying my threat

to humanity, a bottle of water.



This plane might blow up from my combustible

organic hair shampoo and conditioner.

And my underwear, it has the power

to strangle you. My nail file, emery board,

and clipper have designs to hold you hostage.

So back off, I will curse up a hell-fire.

This airplane will rise into that toxic

radiation level at risk of hijack, it may never

reach its destination, but my carryon

has big plans to get me where Iím going fast

when I get off this plane.

Julene Tripp Weaver: lives in Seattle and works in an AIDS Service Organization; this second career is the basis for her chapbook Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues. Her poems are published in many journals including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Off the Coast, Pontoon, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy, Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage, Pireneís Fountain, and Letters to the World Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV.
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