and i left with two pairs of wings,
a heavy silver cross on my neck and three
wheat pennies buried deep in my pockets.
from the air, la looks yellow, withered like
nicotine stained fingers; smelly and filthy like
unwashed hair.
two black men with scarred, wrinkled elephant skin knees
comfort me
as my eyes turn red from silent crying.
my hands, feeble and trembling and flimsy
against my face,
and my heart is sinking in exhilaration the adventure-
the idea- the reality… what becomes of dreams
once they are inlaid with concrete?
we land, change planes, ascend.
i resist sleep but rest with anticipation and babble
of travelers moving towards Nashville or Baltimore
and my shoulders, worn and sore from weight and
wings.
we pass over Flagstaff Arizona and i crane my neck
to see my first home through the cramped plexiglas
windowand soon it is Winslow, Price; towns i remember
from highway signs
or the occasional friend of mother or father.
the Grand Canyon in miniature and New Mexico sans greenery
the Mid-West- - a patchwork?
and the boy next to me hails from North Carolina,
sounds like Ali, who sounds like home.
my guitar in the cargo hold below me
and i listen to music i want to play
read books and write just to pass time and stay open-eyed
but i succumb to my body, ending up cross-legged
indian style face in hands: 20 minute catnap.
we land in Tennesee.
seats vacate, the crew changes and the captain
brings the nose
up, the wheels up, the plane into blue.
i have a window seat.
looking out at the valley floor of clouds,
i see a rainbow caught in a web of sky,
glimmering and it turns gold at the bottom
where that black kettle is
the drive "home?" "back?" "there?"
my disoriented limbs cushioned by familiar faces
they seem misplaced in all these trees.
we stop at Hunan's for chinese, outside of Baltimore,
and give the waitress a hard time.
my fortune predicts
i am changing
doors swinging
wide on oiled hinges
and the irony hammers me to my chair.
my awe is quiet as we drive by D.C.
i think, "the President sleeps twenty five minutes
from my new bed."
the songs on the radio are the same and i settle into myself,
winged, crossed, and lucky at eighteen.
copyright 1998 eak
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