Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
Flight
Near the gate for my flight,
I spot other passengers, Greek
speaking, well-dressed, their children
playing in the aisles, as though
we were in Greece already and
this were an outdoor taverna.
The women show their heavy gold
jewellery as their husbands wait wearily,
yet devoid of the casual laxity of men
rolling the kombóloi at the kafeníon.
Do I know these men? Would I know
their wives if they passed me at the laïkí
or rushed in front of me at the supermarket
for the last bottles of water should war
wave its yellow flag once again? But I
will leave if the jets overhead turn
unfriendly. Already I look up as the shadows
of planes pass and the roar throws
my hands to my ears. Do I know, too,
the men who stare at me a moment
too long, who tie two countries together
and, like me, will always belong to one?
When will this transatlantic flight enable
us each to travel where we had wanted
to go, where we still want to go?