an evaporating cloud.
an evaporating cloud.
Where you are
you are. I am cold. I am dark. I am
you, falling. I am taking you in-
side. I am carrying you
under the ocean
Dear ones, might a sign appear, if only a shard?
Even if sheered from nothing, a shard.
50 days slipped safely past
you who have disappeared—bequeath a shard.
Wherever you flew, wherever you fell
Dear lost ones, just a shard.
Your spectral lines, your memories, even your
fear clinging somewhere. However sharp, a shard.
Do you remember us?
We wait here. Even for a shard.
The clouds will start turning black. We should not expect
to see down. Through
comes nowhere. Yet someone
will expect everything. Maybe plan it. Or just
if the co-pilot picks up the phone.
If anyone hears.
Sky let you fall.
Ocean swallowed you.
Ocean took you in.
Sky set you free.
Sky let you.
I only have brothers. But when the last night
tears loose, flies
blind through the smoke beyond this
realm of air, my sister
will sit with me. Will stitch
ruffles in my ashes, comb my hair, part
the ether between this world and all that —
pull me through properly. She will.
There may be debris. It may
be our debris. The debris that may be
may have washed up on a shore. Maybe
in Australia. Maybe more debris
on more than one shore. Possibly also
elsewhere. Wherever it may be, it has been
secured. No one will see it. No one will
find us. No one will know.
Malai is mountain. Melayu is where we make things
run. It is the current of our river. For 40,000 years,
we have been split by the South China Sea.
Our ground eroding, our bedrock dissolving
we have always made what we need.
We make cars. We build satellites.
Trust me, the planes we make do not go up
without coming back down.
forgot to stop
In a sky so slippery,
even the moon slipped.
your hair into feathers,
pulled off your shoes.
It said, Come.
Apologies for sending so many letters, but how am I to stop worrying about you, buried blind under that black water, easy prey for hatchet fish, viperfish, spookfish, bristlemouths, all those ambush predators? Even if you don’t care about us, how can you rest down there
dear you, with your excessive wingspan, your polimer construction, your extended slats, loaded with 227 passengers, 12 crew, your hold full of luggage. You who climbed 35,000 feet and vanished from tracking records while still climbing, dear 777, they say I should let you lie
with the government that guarded your secrets, your black silk underwear, your clandestine terrorist lover, your hidden hijacker, your inner fire, dear you who turned back when you should not have turned, unless
there wasn’t a spark when there shouldn’t have been, the pilots didn’t asphyxiate, didn’t lose their minds, if
there was a secret mission, if you crossed the Indian Ocean, climbed Everest, and landed somewhere on Shangri La, if you would write back to me, dear you, so much to answer for, you
carrying my friend, flying for the first time, still grieving. She’d even named the baby. When you took off, how your light reflected onto her face. How she yearned for you to lift her over those mountains, across that water.
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Brian Marggraf, Author of Dream Brother: A Novel, Independent publishing advocate, New York City dweller
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Beyond The Tetralemma
James Kolt Marretrey
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I want my life to be composed of first times
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