Ruben Quesada

Issue #
September 27, 2015

Anecdote of an Aircrash

I knew the risk of dying

in a plane crash was small but I loved

                    to fly. When you are young

you are told not to talk to strangers but in the air

who can keep you from talking to them. And when

a plane falls apart and you know you are not dying alone

                    the moment is still lonely.

Once I wanted to be an astronaut, to fly about

like a weightless ribbon of flesh giving up the ghost of gravity. Still

in these last moments of flight above a lagoon of lights

I think, this is as close as I’ll ever be to outer space.

                    I look past rows of seats ahead,

out toward a queue of cars coming into view through a foam of clouds

just then a forest of homes rise

and a tensile curve of road approaches.

This could be any flight. How difficult

to be in this body. To be gnashed by fire and steel

                    the last thing you see as your eyes drift

is a couple at your right; you don’t turn away.

You watch. They hold each other tight.

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