but airplanes, they are such a thing.
My body, steel-encased and careening,
and waiting, always waiting
for the pressure drop, for the forced air, for the budding
between lips, the bloom worked for,
worried over, open, finally, flown.
The woman in the painting beside my bed wants to know this: “flown.”
Only part of me cares to respond, the other part rifles through.
This woman aches just as I do.
There are three main types of flight:
Echo, arrow, and spiral.
Crocus, Iris, Fiddlehead unfurling.
Her body: Intuition, God.