Inspection

by Rebecca Hazelton

Inspection

by Rebecca Hazelton

First we shuffled off
our shoes, then emptied
our pockets, each of us depositing
our wallets and keys
into plastic trays.

Then we unzipped
the coats that made us look bigger,
we removed
our belts and left them neatly looped.

Cufflinks fell to the ground
like bullets—we laughed at this,
nervously—the women pulled pins
from their hair
and had never looked
so beautiful.

Our hands trembled
but the shirts came off,
then we each stood on one leg, the other,
and tugged off our pants,
we placed our underwear
into the plastic bags and submitted

to a series of questions
regarding our intent,
the duration
of our stay.

Each of us still had the fine hairs
on our arms and legs
that raise in response
to drafts of cool air,
and they did rise,
they did wave like cilia,
which was telling

but there was more
to discover,
certain falsehoods
we’d made
about our eyes and teeth,
about our hearts
and microwaves,

and those of us
who’d held
our children’s hands
were asked politely
to let go, let go,

no one, we were told,
goes in but alone,
and then we raised our arms,
and we walked through.

from Resistance, Rebellion, Life: 50 Poems Now (Alfred A. Knopf, 2017).