Fear of Flying
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014
12 years ago almost-birthday.
Muggy July, heat embargo.
10 p.m. My thighs stuck to vinyl.
Diesel fragrant air, tired tourists,
rumpled in, jackets lumped on arms,
meandering toward Baggage Claim.
I watched them dwindle.
All my losses, deaths, griefs-accumulated
weighted my ribs, my own stained satchel.
Corridors echoed, tourists vanished,
hydraulic doors hissed at the night
like a frightened cat.
My thighs stuck to vinyl.
Does the airport stay open 24/7?
At “too late” a blue-suited man entered
a secret door from the tarmac.
He carried my sharded heart,
white basket hung from one finger.
My thighs stung unstuck,
“Is this yours?”
I took my beating heart,
my own two hands,
pressed my face, painful metal.
Blue crocheted baby-blanket,
two enormous ear-tips poking through.
This exact moment
I knew your wings;
that you had grabbed me
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