Page 36 - WDickinson_Blackwell_Submission

Air Travel
I know a place, he says.
drive or walk or bike or
army crawl on yellow bruised elbows.
doesn’t matter how.
some point on the map where small light
will carbon copy him from body to shadow.
easy. revert to previous self.
or relapse to time before self. easy.
I know a place, he says.
place before time. before complications.
before dishes left in sink. before unopened mail.
unfinished project on the table.
that path down a particular street lighting
that chisels him down. closed doors and
unfamiliar avenues to places not here.
washington. california. kentucky. other side.
doesn’t matter. the vehicle unimportant.
he buys that
one-way ticket. easy.
But I know a
place less like a place and more like
rocking from heel to ball, winding up from unforgiving
pavement to skyrocket to atmosphere.
place less like a place and more like
a guarantee the avenues remain gridlocked
leading nowhere and elbows remain bruised
and time unwraps itself back into unpleasant childhoods
place less like a state and more like a state
of being. to be wrapped in the warmth of oxygenless air, he thinks.
to be warmed by a deathless death, far from the blue of planets.
I know a
place that will ruin you. will rot you from core.
will train wreck you. will crunch real bone on bone. will catapult you
into zero percent oxygen. into missing a living home.
now wish you had gotten out of bed just once. hard.
maybe wash a goddam plate for once. hard.
maybe told someone about your one-way ticket so they could rip it up (harder still).
maybe didn’t yearn for the place that fractured you, preventing any
future travel. harder still.
but at least then
your destinations could be

real.

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