Flying home
I am ready to die,
like my Grandma
Two million women
march below us,
holding up half the sky,
their shoes sparking
like New Year’s Eve fire crackers
The light reaches from one window
to the other
across the plane’s brief aisle.
Between the pews,
the glow of no smoking signs
and the seatbelts that contain us
We are an afterthought, we passengers
The planes real cargo is this
lambent space
The mind at the end
can be like this
A scattering of thoughts
in effortless suspension
over countless joyful graves
and pillars of suffering
But mostly
A brilliant emptiness
In flight toward absolute
nothingness.
January 21 and 22, 2017
annaquon 