A Dream of November
The red, white, and gold belly
of the plane bulges above me.
November wind becomes roar of engines,
no longer October’s swoosh and swirl
of trees, of leaves, of hair.
I can no longer hear you.
I do not look up, knowing
I will see the cloudless sky
and the plane, the last thing
I may see. Nothing good ever
happens on days like these.
I run away, denim skirt slapping
thick calves, bruising them, losing myself
on uphill streets past three-decker houses.
My heart races. I brace myself,
escaping the city, the plane’s target.
Miles away, the plane crashes,
smashing against an out of season
baseball field. Sirens throb, faster, faster
than my heart. Someone else dies.
Catching my breath, I inch back
to the crash. I find you,
still talking.
--Marianne Szlyk
*This poem previously appeared in Rasputin*
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