We deserve a medal you and I
for how we stalled desire
into elastic. How we keep tugging
at both ends for a gust of air
to stroke the fire beneath
our patience. But here’s a secret
darling: this isn’t my first waiting
Olympics. I’ve waited years for my life to start when I thought life
only happens where everyone
speaks the language I was raised
to worship. Then came the long
layovers—the hours upon hours
at the airports of cities I was only
allowed to glimpse from a padlocked
sky. The endless lines at customs
while officers sniffed every brown
skin for the bashful tang of contraband
comfort food. I waited two years once
to see my mother’s smile outside
a phone screen, to watch her from my bed
at dawn, crouching on her prayer
rug, the light tempered by her dark
scarf draped over the lampshade,
and to know that half her prayers
are on my behalf. I’ve juggled enough
jet lags for the needles of my biological
clock to spin beyond time’s reach,
beyond despair. But darling, what if that’s how
love wears off—you wait until
you forget that you’re waiting.
