Flight Risk

You once built a model airplane for me.
I remember because the sky that day
was a silken blue tablecloth spread out

across the atmosphere without china white
clouds or silver linings. It was a vast
untraveled country, uncluttered, shapeless

and beyond perimeters, a table
without a setting, room enough for legs
to roam the open plains. You spent the day

putting parts together, sliding balsa
wings on the body, attaching rudder
and plastic propeller so you could teach

me to fly. We went to a field where you
pitched the plane to sky. It rose in the wind,
glided on air, gently swaying with grass

below. When you handed me the aircraft
I couldn’t let go. Each time the wind broke
so did my heart. I feared it might break in

pieces like my mother’s. Each time the plane
made a descent, my belly plummeted
with it. You gave up being my teacher

and flew the aircraft solo. I stretched out
in wavering grass watching arrivals
and departures. I waited for the crash

landing but it never came. Spirits soared
even after the blue tablecloth slipped
from the table and night set it on fire.

P. C. Vandall is the author of two chapbooks of poetry: Something from Nothing (Writing Knights Press) and Woodwinds (Lipstick Press). Her first full-length poetry collection, Crows Taste Best on Toast, is forthcoming from Lady Lazarus Press. When she is not writing, she’s sleeping. She believes sleep is death without the commitment.

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One Response to Flight Risk

  1. Wonderful….one of my favorites that I have read on here.

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