Tag: flying

I think of Poe when I fly.

Not the raven.
Not the grave.

The fear.

The way the mind
can make a room
out of anything.

A cabin.
A body.
A sound.

The engine under the floor
beats like something
I am trying not to name.

My ears muffle on purpose.

I do not want to hear
the machine holding me up.

I do not want to know
how much faith has metal in it.

So I write.

Because when I am afraid
I need somewhere
to put my hands.

I need the page
to take what my body
keeps trying to become.

Outside, the clouds pass
like pages
no one has confessed on yet.

White.
Unwritten.
Too beautiful to trust.

Maybe this is why
I think of Poe:

because he knew fear
was not only the dark

but the mind
making meaning
out of every sound
it cannot survive.

So I give the sound
a sentence.

I give the fear
a place to stand
that is not my chest.

I write
until the engine
is only an engine

until the clouds
are only clouds

until the fear inside me
stops pacing

and sits down.