Mary Christine Delea

Valise

Packing light is mythology,

like minotaurs and blind girls

with vision. Packing light

is not for those of us

with a weakness for on-sale luggage,

a desire for exercise after hours

in a car or on a plane; we like

three trips between car and room

for a weekend visit.

Packing light means quickness in and out,

no time to pause, to breathe,

to acclimate. Besides,

I like flirting with bellboys,

struggling through train stations,

relaxing in airports

and watching the world of suitcases

rotating with the day.

Packing light means to lapse

and I am always prepared.

When circumstances change or

disaster hits, I have a pen,

an ace bandage, better shoes,

more toys, needle and thread,

a book of translated common phrases,

a map of constellations,

the right amount for a bribe.

My baggage may own me,

but my baggage is my own.

Confession

There’s the rub—this drink,

one more candle in the dark universe

trying to hold its own. I sit

in a casino—brightest star—

and I know that one more hit 

of tequila won’t give me strength, 

knock me into being Lady Macbeth 

or even Frank Sinatra.

Let’s pretend I won and we don’t 

have to worry about this mortgage. 

One more drink, so I don’t have to 

look you in the eye and hope 

one of us will drop dead 

before I need 

to confess.