The sharp ridges of clear blue windows
motion to me
from the airport’s second floor.
Edges dance in the foothills of the Sandias
behind security guards
who wave me into their guncatcher machine.
I am a dangerous woman.
When the machine buzzes they say
to take off my belt,
and I remove it so easy
that it catches the glance
of a man standing nearby.
(Maybe that is the deadly weapon
that has the machine singing.)
I am a dangerous woman,
but the weapon is not visible.
Security will never find it.
They can’t hear the clicking
of the gun inside my head.