You worry about flight.
How your body will take
to air with so much
water, so many
growing bones.
She pushes against
the seat belt & you
haven't slept
for days, too many
nights celebrating
your own birth
to concern yourself
with hers, so you fall
asleep, lulled by hum,
metal on wind, her wings
practicing flight
inside you. "Ma’am,
are you Okay? Can you
hear me??" You wake
in panic. What
have you let
your body do? But, no,
not you. Across the aisle,
they cannot wake a woman
twice your age. How many
bones has she already
grown? How many flights
inside? And now, her hands,
her mouth refuse
to move. They get a nod
at first and then
a name. They find
a nurse among the passengers.
They lay the woman
on the floor, bring down
her blood, pressure cuff
wrapped around her foot.
You realize you've had to pee
for hours, but refuse
to walk across her body.
"Don't cry," they tell her,
but she keeps apologizing.
"Nothing to be sorry ‘bout,
you’re gonna make yourself
feel worse," the nurse reminds,
"In and out, remember,
in and out." You listen too
and breathe. It's quiet now
inside you. No pushing
to get out. Your body
yours while she is held
and lifted back
into her seat, and you
are now just minutes
from the earth, in and out,
how breathing is a lot
like water, in and out, a lot
like soil, the body’s
predetermined movements,
returning always where
you came. Ignited
early morning clouds
surround and though
you are not one to pray,
you do, ask god
to bring her
safely down, in
and out, as soon
as metal touches
ground, in and out,
your daughter’s boning wings
push in and out
your ribcage.
