Flying Home

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

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