Seated

If an airplane 
was as quiet
as your bedroom
You could hear
the man crying 
in 12F
You'd get used to it though
He does this 
Every time
 

Three sketches from a short flight

1 Hajj

This last flight
of the last pilgrim
delayed
An unexpected rain
the first desert's
skin felt
a dry century of visitors
a welcome wash
for almost all of us


2 Nests

Inside this envelope
is another envelope
The one I meant you to open
Also, ignore the envelope
inside that first envelope
It's meant
for someone else


3 Overheard

My wife is an artist
she's completely feng shui
So amazing what's bought
a market of
decisions delegations
this plane of promises
tuck your head between your knees
tell her goodbye
we will be landing soon
one way
or another

Nothing Unclean

When the door closes
I lose track of time
As it seeps backwards
I'm in a cab
I'm home
I'm in bed
You're shuddering next to me
I'm seventeen
They tell me she's disappeared into the bathroom
I'm with my broken father
Looking at the clouds
Expelled by the planes
Filling the only sky of Michigan
The air so fragile
It shatters when the rain hits it
Crashing on us running
Two hundred miles an hour
To the door
Thundered shut
My stomach cinches
The plane begins to rise

Happy Birthday

November 4, 2008

Departing Chicago.

The plane is nearly empty. Everyone sits down quickly, immediately orders a drink.

There are ribbons of newspapers, expired information.
What's happening in Virginia? Indiana? Pennsylvania?

Everything is dark. The plane queues for takeoff with a whine. Flight stewards talk about nothing. "When will we know?" "Maybe tonight."

On earth the polls are closing. Above the plane is hermetically sealed. No information enters or leaves. We settle into the sky above Lake Michigan, among satellites blinking quietly above the water.

Somewhere below, above the night, comes a phone call.
Hello?
Hi, it's me.
Oh. Hi.
What's up?
Nothing. You?
I think I'm going to bed.
OK. I guess it's late.
Yes. I'm tired. You go on without me.
OK.

The airport late at night

Empty, little cocoons of conversation. Most are alone. You see them in the distant dim, faces lit by their screens. A single Indian woman sits with a straight back, talking on the phone to her husband, promsing herself to him again and again.

True Story

Did you know that above the clouds it is always sunny?
When I tell you this it seems impossible.
But it is true,
I swear.

One Way

She silently mouths a conversation alone against the window. Her breath fogs the glass. In the story, he says different things, flatters her decision, it's going as planned.

Some Numbers

It's Friday afternoon so everyone in first class is drinking. It's free but that's not really the point. These people are used to free, or at least they're used to ignoring concerns of less than ten dollars. When they drink is more important than why. Or how much. On my last trip a man next to me had three gin and tonics. It was ten in the morning on a Tuesday. The flight lasted seventy-five minutes. He was in his late sixties, dressed impeccably, tweed, a tie with a clip. At the end of the flight, entering final descent, he opened a folder filled with pages of numbers aligned in precise columns. He flipped the pages quickly and sighed. After a minute he closed everything and turned outside as the brown grass of the flat edge of Detroit filled the window.

Flocks

Thick, eager birds
wait on flamingo legs.
A silent cue.
One recoils in a pause,
violently pursues the sky.

Late Landing

Early evening. Out the window, slender smoke ledge of cloud suspends the horizon. Above it the sky silvers into blue. Below, all is void and the grid of earth spinning below, spirals of white houses.

The city is distant

glowing rose

inside a hard clear moat. Night is drifting down from the sky. 

Who could think of sleep now? Sails open. 

Chairs are being set outside. 

Girls slip on sandals 

and shake their moist hair down to the ground.

It’s evening in New York. Wake up.

Bernoulli

I look down from the window

and what I see is impossible

to decipher

Perhaps we were not meant to look at the earth

from this angle

we have no eyes for what it is

we are always lost from above

until we see a lake shaped like a map

or a cluster of black roofs

that reminds us of home

My friend is an engineer who once built planes

He says humans still don’t quite understand

why they fly

There are equations

that don’t tie out

There are assumptions

that no one has proven

The physics don’t work

But planes fly

it is true

They are up in the air

I am in them

Their impossible feat

an act of faith 

and terrible imagination

Transfer

When you leave, the passengers look like you.

They’re from your town,

They eat at your restaurants.

Then you land in Rome.

How could you have been so wrong?

They’re Romans, clearly.

Didn't you see the luggage?

Didn’t you hear them speak?

Didn’t you see him lower his lids,

kiss her ear,

whisper

finally.

Seated

I want a flight attendant

To call me to bed

To tell me it's been secured

To tell me what to turn off

To stow.

Where to sit.

I want her in a dark voice

with champagne edges.

I will do what she says.

I will follow every command.

Business Class

I am slouched against the plane's window, cold head wasted from daytime numbers. The ice night passes below. I will hang my coat. I will drink the free wine. I will imagine I am different than this. I turn off the overhead light and in the blue black feel the air of the earth rush under my feet. There is a woman knitting. Across the aisle a man with a paper stares at one word for twenty minutes. It is silent except for the engines which are a 1972 Ford LTD late Saturday night driving me and my mother, fog sleep descending on us. A stewardess arrives and lifts me, tiny and curled, whispering home. She carries me in her arms to the rim of the plane. Cities spread forward, dots of white and orange, blinking. In between them, like gravity, blackness. Goodnight she says. I look up at her and and shake my head no. Feed the engines the wine and burn my clothes for fuel. I will help you hunt for quarters in the seat cracks, we'll pay the pilot to continue on, to Godthab, to Gdansk, to the Black Sea, to Ceylon, to Borneo. Just keep the plane flying. Let the air hold us aloft. We can remain forever on the dark side of the earth, out of day's reach.

Rome to Palermo

In seat 23C, a soft, fuzzy teenage girl studies the laminated safety sheet.

Her younger brother in 23B copies her,

succeeding in getting the paper to hang from the folding tray.

Her hair is a lion

or like Samson's must have been,

she's examining her fingers slowly, one at a time.

She wears a checkered blue gingham shirt,

puffed sleeves,

white shorts,

slender silver bracelet,

a storm of sparkling blue eyeshadow.

The plane heaves to life

she leans her head back,

tells her brother

we are going.