Excise

Each year I travel, my passport photo
looks less like me. Two of us
trick our way through customs.
My heart dances and I tell myself,
Don’t breathe so shallow,
when I face a uniform block
my path, unlike my laminated
photo tucked in my breast pocket,
locked in amber and oblivious.
I age for both of us at double speed.
My silent partner keeps his poker face,
I do the talking for the two of us.
Nights, I dream this face but not my life,
leaving me with a sour taste and smell,
longing for a country not on any map:
to be the man who crosses borders
without a passport; whose face matches
curved lines that spell my name.
The official behind Plexiglass
takes her time, looks me up and down.
I speak as she scans my passport
and watches for what the screen brings
up about me. I’ve no idea what she sees
that makes her ask about my line of work.
I answer with a face
that’s stranger to my passport every day,
telling lies about a life not lived, not his.