Same Name, Different Country

I put them side by side on the counter—

two photos, same expression, different face.

Something about the jaw, the way the eyes

hold themselves now in a more careful place.

The agent at the gate looked between them.

Photo. Face. Photo. Face.

That rhythm—like she was redeeming

a voucher that had aged out of its case.

She stamped it. Handed it back.

I smiled—the reflex, the slack

American grin for authority.

She didn't. She had the knack

for not needing anything from me.

I walked through. The terminal swallowed me whole.

The second photo travels constantly.

The first one stayed. He had no idea

what it was going to cost him.