Poetry

Takeoff

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You’re wondering if I’m afraid:
All right, then, yes, I’m afraid
as the plane chugs low and bumpy
and the bags slam against overhead shelves,
skimming above the prairie’s smooth chest
headed for westbound slopes

of Lake Tahoe. You want to ask
if I’m afraid. Naturally, yes, I’m afraid
as a woman driving hard and deep
as a pickaxe through Nebraskan soil,
leaving behind her small towns with names
of the natives who once made their home,
who steam behind her, towns that might have carved
out a small room for her.

If I’m afraid, it must be the fear of falling
face-first into a dream that I just missed
remembering; of plunging back first
into dawn’s chapped hands. Of being empty-
handed in a world whose fists are full.

If I’m afraid, let it be in a boat
sitting along the shore of a distant river
with a name like DuPage that squiggles
like a blue vein through the dead landscape
below, the river knows it’s neither
escape nor mouth, but instead a surging mechanism
with a penchant for running.