Alaska Airlines Nonstop to LAX
Before the planes turned to ram the Twin Towers,
they hummed in a straight line just like this--
an achievement always to stay calm facing forward
and most remarkable when wings and circuits
keep us suspended over a space too vast
to be even called a drop. The sky that radiates blue
from below turns to nothing when looked at
from above, but here on board, we cling
to the somethings we have: water closer to us
in the plastic bottles than in the particles
of clouds, American Hustle on the in-flight movie
catching more stares than the mountaintops
that will never bounce light just this way again.
The story goes that even the astronauts
played Hank Williams on Apollo 13
until the batteries died, and perhaps in the face
of the possible fireball, all we know is the language
we packed from home. Given one more minute,
how many of us would opt for last words,
some grand phrase to resolve up high
what was left unfinished miles below?
The fullest circle would be to go in silence,
to let sky outlive the word for sky
and thrill one last time to what light and color gave--
the outpost of ground and expansion of blue
and the promise that thoughts could help us climb.
Published in Angels in Seven (Moon Tide Press, 2016)