by Barbara Siegel Carlson
A man is playing solitaire as we begin our descent. Taps his thumb on each numbered heart and spade on his smartphone.
To his right out the window a steel wing. I’m to his left moving my pen across an unlined page, remembering at this moment
the ceiling at the airport where the security lines form. The ceiling painted blue with clouds, so we have something to look at
as we remove our shoes & belts, empty our pockets, put our hands over our heads for the camera. The man playing solitaire doesn’t
look up. His reddish beard twitches. He has a tattoo of a Chinese sign on his wrist. Out the window the horizon’s streaked green
between nothing & nothing. Below us the world’s cloaked in a singular darkness as the plane plunges through a cloud. The aisle is lit.
We’re all buckled in—for a moment our shoulders touch. But we’re unreadable, our lives invisible to each other who see only the surface
Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Siegel Carlson.