I haven’t traveled much lately. I miss it. Not the getting to. Not that airplane racket, that people in places where you can’t get around them and their cell phone is their best friend and the air smells like bad food and now you’re eating that bad food and hurry and wait. Not the way the man looks at me when my luggage goes through the superhero xray machine and shows my pale weaknesses: Contact lenses shined like Kryptonite. Vibrator set into airplane mode with the batteries out–vibrations could send the whole plane into orbit. Laptop with the unfinished novel, the bad-bad words that will never make me famous, never make me rich, never make me lovable or fuckable. I want so much to be fuckable.

If I step into the glass box full of air, that standing glass coffin of vision, what will you see? My breasts are covered by Wonderbra, that hero of heroes. Not even the arch and pluck of my nipples can be seen.

This box will show you the curve of my spine, the grooved record of a hundred revolutions around the world. The tattoo inside my skin that spells Fuck You Mister in invisible ink, in Morse Code, written backwards so you’ll never read it. The tattoo on my hip that says Fuck Me Mister in black-black, onyx like Egyptian, kohl like ancient history. The chip in my tooth from my years of chewing glass, which looked like ice, which looked a little something like love in the light of the stove. The cut in my tongue from that time we kissed on a bed in the baby’s room where the chalkboard on the ceiling said, Your Life Was Here. December 2006. TLA.

My socks have holes in the heels, but my panties are laced with lead. Impregnable fortress of lust. Don’t let it out. Contagion. Wide-spread panic. There will be orgies on the ceilings, blowjobs on the wings, girls grinding their knees on airport carpets.

Wanting to be fuckable isn’t the same as wanting to be fucked. Sometimes my explosive detector goes off on accident. False alarm. Can’t tell the difference. I go in the back room anyway, wait my turn.

No, I don’t miss the getting there. The will she or won’t she. The girl in the catsuit who scratches let me in, let me out, let me in again. If I go around fast enough, I will beat the world at its own game. I will be Schrodinger’s Brat. There and not there.

I do miss the arrivals. Landings. I like landing. Stepping off. Getting off. There’s a connection here, right? What am I missing? In front of my face like a sneeze.

Tomorrow, I don my alter ago.

Tomorrow, I wonder if my cape will hold me in the blue of the sky.

Tomorrow, I will spin the world on the tip of my finger, break a nail, break a heart.

And then the world will fall. It always does. Inhale. Exhale. Nothing breaks. That’s the point, isn’t it? You can ask and ask, you can hide the parts of you that are made of glass and stone, you can cover the ferryman’s eyes with coins of copper, you can dress your desires up in don’t-look-at-me-clothes, but they radiate light. You don’t need vision to see the way I want to come to you.