At twelve years old, divorce
put me on the plane,
a summer with my Mother,
who gave me to my Father
because he made her afraid.
I was afraid of flying too.
Even my popping ears
scared me despite
the wad of bubble gum.
Planes were small back then,
loud propellers were seen
out of the window.
Imagined them falling off,
bursting into flames,
closed my eyes,
saw WWII movie crashes.
Lifted off into the Arctic clouds,
the vast, impenetrable whiteness.
Descending.
At last! At last!
Why are we going up again?
Planes land or crash.
Gravity goes down, not up!
Descending again,
gripping the seat tightly
like every trip on a Ferris Wheel.
Safe! In Rhode Island. In Mom’s arms.
Mom exclaimed about the landing gear.
"They were not down on the first descent.
You were saved by the radio tower."
On and on she talked
as if the landing
triumphed over my arrival.
Now, summer in Rhode Island.
Providence.
Originally published in Corvus Review