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Security Line

Sometimes you’re asked to prove
who you are. So you open your wallet,

take out a card with your photo,
that lists your name and residence,

height, weight, blue eyes, brown hair.
So much more is not there:

the burdens your hands have held,
from your lips, what words,  scars
below your navel and one nipple.
When the officer looks in your eyes

above her black-framed glasses,
you answer Yes, yes, as with her gloved hand

she motions you through the gate.
There are some others with your name

(you recently checked on Facebook):
a realtor, lawyer, pediatrician

but they’re not on the Burbank flight.
When you got your first passport,

marriage license, job at the college
you had to show a printed paper

you keep folded in an envelope
that has on it an inked footprint

smudgy, the size of half your thumb
(this evidence, too, is surely you)

a certificate embossed in gold that stated
your name, officially signed and dated

in the courthouse of a  Midwest town
where you will never return.