We the travelling horde funnel into a serpentine
of supplicants, step forth one by one toward the ritual
scrutiny of identity. Who are we, really, each of us?
We drop our collective gaze, divest ourselves
of worldly worth, watches, shoes, dust of the earth,
the three ounces that can’t contain the distillation
of our sins, all offered into bins. I look to the woman
in TSA array, note her name. Her countenance
is both stern and saintly.
