Notes from Rerouted Flight 488

Kamilah Aisha Moon

A rattle inside a new fist,

Irma shakes us with the glee

of men without morals

shaking kingdoms senseless.

They tried, twice, because

fools often will, the rest

of us be damned.

Some prefer to atone after

rather than restrain

that first wicked urge. Irma’s

wet, high-strung hands

grab the plane’s steel

wrists, twisting them hard & away

from her swirling core.

This ecstasy is mine —

you can’t land

in the middle of my dervish

twirl, pentecostal bliss. I’ll make

quick work of you.

I’m 44 & not as afraid

as I should be. I stare

at the hills & faintly hear

my name; knees threaten

surrender come shine & rain.

Men embrace me, weeping

from my words. Women clutch

the nape of my neck in joy,

then let go. Timelines wail

of those wedged between wavering

parents & distressed babies — nights

crush us random as pines uprooted

by giant ghouls oblivious to cities

swarming their heels. I’ve weathered

Earth long enough to start craving

what’s beyond it. How would Saturn’s salt

stun my tongue? Is Neptune’s water

unleaded? Would my country

or my friend who has forsaken me

love me spinning large elsewhere?

The jilted plane shudders,

straining to climb above

the ruckus it thought

it could handle

& we hush. I text my family

calm as her eye, almost ready

to find out.

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