A Grey-Haired Woman Goes Through Airport Security

A badged man waves paper over my hands.

I ask what he wants to find.

"Traces of explosives," the man explains.

"Wow!" I remark to my palms.

After takeoff, I ask the steward,

"What do they want to know?"

"If you built a bomb or fired a gun."

The man across the aisle snickers.

"She's old enough to be my mother."

I want my forefinger to grow bony

so I can poke him in the ribs and hiss,

"These old hands have strangled cats."

Instead, I fold my dangerous hands

in an age-appropriate way,

and smile when the snickering guy

peeks to see if I am his mother.

If mothers and grandmothers were screened for violent thoughts,

​airlines would go out of  business.