Conversation stammers to a halt
the second the suitcases
get tucked into the trunk.
On the sidewalk we are astonishingly awkward
shuffling feet, stuffing hands into any available pocket.
Accidental eyelock would unleash emotions
too delicate for this public curbside. Instead
we lunge into an embrace like two bull moose
locking antlers in battle.
Inevitably one of us hangs on too long
stunned stupid by the sudden realization
of just how much has been left unsaid.
But as the taxi engine revs, goodbye
is the only word left, and its absolute lack
hangs in the air like exhaust.
-Lo, who, for the first time in a year, has written a poem that is not about a baby or a dog.