Monday, July 16, 2007

Finally, a poem. (That sounded a little emo, I think.)

In The Airplane

It’s like waiting to be born,
waiting for the deep hook of the air
to come pierce our chests,
fling us up into the mechanical sky
with its constant dull ding
and shades that open and close,
close and open, like the blink
of a great sleepy eye.

I’m not sure I want to sit so close
to you, stranger, but you’re showing me
me photos of the flood in your backyard,
the Big Wheel and basketball sunk in the mud,
and your stiff blond hair pokes my shoulder
as if to say, pay attention.

They’re de-icing our wings with pink froth
while you tell me about the Iranian boys
you hosted, how they read so silently
in their borrowed rooms, their perfect
dark little hands always hidden --

your soft voice the drone of an angel,
once she has given up and gone to earth.


Nick said...

I like the way you work in the different tropes and elements in this poem. Thanks for the read.

Christine said...

Thanks, Nick! Yeah, there was a sort of shift in the middle -- I'm glad you liked it. Could you see the metaphor I stole from Plath??

Valerie Loveland said...

Lots of great images in this one. Love the part with the hook of the air. At first I thought the title was a little boring for the poem, but it grew on me--I like it now.

Nick said...

Purloined from "Mystic" -

The air is a mill of hooks

Do I pass the audition? :-)

Christine said...

Nick -- Yes! Plath also mentions hooks in Ariel. You win the prize.

Valerie -- thanks. It would be hard for the poem have a different title, but I can see how it's boring -- it's very functional.