What you should expect when you meet me at the airport:

poem

by Kim Muncey

My hair smells of garlic. When I cough,
lemony sumac, cinnamon, slips over my tongue, a spicy residue
clings to my stomach’s walls.
But when you kiss me hello, I am certain
you will taste fresh figs. Their seeds are caught in my gums.

There are aquamarine glints sparkling beneath my fingernails.
Last night, swimming between the distant, rocky cliffs of Rhodes
and the greened mountains of Antalya, swelling into the clouds,
my fingertips shot trails of phosphorescence through the water as I skimmed them
over the surface. I remind myself of a peacock,
gleaming, all blue and green.

I carry a wad of matted camel hair in my pocket
from a Sunday morning spent at the flea market, palming smooth Nazar Bonjuks,
chewing on colorful cubes of delight, catching whiffs of linden tea.
Hitched up outside a grocery store; the camel, shifting his weight from side to side.
The driver offered to trade him for one night with me, and my blue eyes.
I gave him a kiss, he snipped a clump of sable hair, directly off the hump.

I smoke clove cigarettes now, the scent dry. It will make you think
of pumpkin pie, spiced cookies baking. They are the closest taste I can find
to the nargeelah, the apple tartness and heavy molasses.

My skin has grown freckles:
light browns, tiny spots of tan flecked all over
my shoulders, chest, nose. This isn’t skin you have touched before:
I have peeled out of myself twice already,
scrubbed the withered wisps away with sea sponges plucked from the water.

You will hardly recognize me.