Tell Your Sins
The Boeing 767 cruises at an altitude
that bumps you like that last minute of microwave
popcorn just before the ‘I’m done’ ding; descends
through the gray and white
cloud layers as her words ring
through the cabined silence:
“What’s not to love,” and “Shoot for the moon.”
You are still unsure of their meaning;
believe in the delivery, the genuflect
of your knees, her incandescent smile.
Where do you begin a moment if you have
always failed? There is no diving board at a safe
height, no pool or water deep
enough to survive the fall. You
should have taken the window seat.
Your ears begin to pop as the plane’s atmospheric pressure
increases or decreases, you forget which. Physics, no,
simple matters escape
your consideration when faced with anxiety and the stark
promontory of smiling back.
The allure of her words like sections of the plane breaks
apart in your mind: fuselage, verbs, wings,
nouns, participles, cockpit. There is nowhere
to hide; what’s not to love.
