I. How do you pack

if your suitcase 

is suddenly just your own

without your sister 

coming along 

to crowd the other half?

You have space

for sweaters, 

a coat, 

your anxiety,

a few more pairs of pants, 

and the extra money

your parents tuck 

into the suitcase’s 

lining for you, but 

the extra room (space 

you wish you could use

for your mother’s cheeky 

smile or your father’s soft-

spoken reassurance) 

doesn’t feel like 

yours to fill.

~~~

II. How you do pack

if you’re not 

supposed to stand 

out? You’re told 

not to dress “too 

American,” so 

you unpack

spare 

university t-shirts, 

stress over 

the fresh pink 

hair dye and folded 

up shorts—

but should 

your clothes matter 

when the slight 

drawl you picked 

up from a grandpa who

wears nothing but 

cowboy boots

gives you away?

~~~

III. How do you pack

if your mom 

isn’t there to ask, 

Did you 

Pack enough 

socks? How 

many shirts 

do you have?

You overpack 

as usual, but 

it’s okay

because you brought 

things you can leave 

behind—an extra 

blanket, a hoard 

of socks, a cheap 

shirt for bleeding

hair dye—

in favor of the dragon 

figurines you bought

from the Tower 

of London 

just for her.

~~~

The Big Dipper, Seen from a Utah Farmhouse

After two weeks in starless European cities and a flight 

back over the Atlantic, your parents pick you up from the airport 

ready to throw your suitcase in the trunk and talk the two 

hours home even though you’re tired and mourning 

the cobbled city streets you’d crossed just the day before. 

Outside the window, there’s only American urban sprawl

yielding to familiar canyons you know as well as your mother’s 

voice asking if you’re happy to be home again.

When you get back to your house, your parents take your things 

inside and shut off the porch lights, but you stay and sit 

on the edge, staring at the Big Dipper hung high in a sky 

bedazzled with stars you didn’t realize you’d missed.