We recognize truths at first
as those things that happen to someone else,
our hands clutched on the armrest
a skein like the one our bodies will become
at the hotel when we arrive –
never once thinking
we could become a fatality
when the nose dives toward earth,
and the fireball roars through the cabin
disappearing – pouf – so quietly,
the charred gravel of your hand bones
mixed, indecipherably, with mine.
Planes That I am in Do Not Crash
AuthorMelissa Fondakowski