Odds

Trying to See Auras at the Airport
by Angela C. Trudeau Vasquez

Recycled over and over
people born look like parents,
grandparents, sister or brother,
or perhaps a throwback
from an earlier ancestor,
the hawk nose, a hard ridged forehead,
the cleft in the chin or a blue birthmark
on the arm, the stomach,
the dainty fresh bum of a newborn
each unique like a snowflake never
can you guess what’s on their mind
sometimes I can feel what they’re feeling
detect it like hairs on the back of my arms,
together we live, talk, walk the same sidewalks,
to die buried in a foreign cemetery
for others to sit upon ponder their
own light, why am I free, what must I do,
does someone love me like I do,
new skin gives way to wrinkles,
hair fades to gray, bones grow strong
then decay, strength seeps every time
one pees, sleeps, ages, loves,
muscles grow then shrink the body
a temporary vessel destination unknown.