A TSA agent lifts your nursling
from your arms.
Flagged, he says.
Just a baby, you say.
The white man behind you
navy tie, slightly loosened
who’d just been cooing at your little one—
fiddles with the cuff of his starched shirt
steps
around you
feeds his briefcase into the bowels of
the x-ray machine as if
you never existed.
The agent takes your baby
a few feet away
a few feet away
is the length of a football field.
Your breasts weep, leak milk
down
the front of your shirt.
Travelers with tunnel vision don’t notice
or, more likely, don’t care
your diapered child
just out of
the womb is
suspected of terrorism.
The agents
examine your baby like
produce.
Is it overripe?
Do these folds of dimpled
flesh foreshadow
decay?
They’ve forgotten about you,
the mother
lost
without your daughter
breaths trapped under your lead diaphragm
whispering promises
the baby
won’t bomb the plane
except
you can’t use the word
bomb.
What unnecessary scrutiny have you been subjected to or witnessed going through airport security? Tell us in the comments.
Image Credit: Flickr
Truly outstanding. Identical to the other people in the security line, we are oblivious to the scrutiny of others based on ethnicity or skin color. Bravo!
Why do the agents always start to whisper when they single you out for more scrutiny? As someone with hearing loss, and at a time when communication seems most important, why do they make it harder? And, yes, you can’t use the words that would clarify, nor can you joke or make light of the situation…. Very good poem– it happens to a lot of us, but you articulated and described what it is like to have it happen because you fit the wrong profile.
The imagery, the trial, and the angst – so well documented! Love it Anjali!