The reality is I’d look like browned lettuce,
wilted and inexplicably sweaty.
My jaw would be locked from the exertion
of fighting off everything I could not say
through a day too close to strangers,
under a sun that was not my own.
I bloat when I’m away from home,
and nothing fits, and I’ve never gone on a trip
without having to shop for a new outfit.
The reality is, I’d have nothing to offer
but presence, strained and pressed,
not even company, sweetly dressed.

But I still want to be there:

shifting food I’d be unable to eat,
shivering at the strangeness of
constellations that can’t name me,
my spine tight with boulders:

celebrating you in a place
that lets you set down everything
resting on those shoulders.