Monday, April 07, 2014

Flight Path


Then only about a year old,
my daughter wouldn't remember
clinging to my shoulders
while the Aeroflot plane climbed.

Nervous fellow-travelers
sipped vodka and murmured.

She leaned into the crook of my arm,
avoiding a cloud of cigarette smoke, and slept.
My gaze was glued to a plastic porthole.

We flew into an extended sunset.
The horizon skipped elusively
along mountain ridges
until it skirted an endless frosty steppe.

At about a hair past the Article Circle,
near the edge of unbearable vertigo,
the real show began, the Aurora.

How to describe a memory of throbbing skies,
of hour after hour spent inside a dance of color?

How would I even have known where we were going, or why,
had I not been launched by a thousand tear-filled prayers?

Shivering, exhausted and in awe,
I followed the rippling ribbons of glowing green.
Astride surging waves of light,
we soared over the North Pole
in a close brush with infinity;
some soberly, while others slumbered.

2 comments:

bluestorm said...

Blessed, you, to bear witness to such cosmic wonder . . .
"How would I even have known where we were going, or why,
had I not been launched by a thousand tear-filled prayers?"
- love these lines!

Iulia Flame said...

It was the most amazing experience, never to be repeated--these flights no longer exist. It seemed as if the Aurora would never end--as if we'd fly straight through it into eternity. :)

Thank you for coming by, bluestorm.

En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...

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