“Airplane Mode”

By D.F. Parizeau

In the

silence

between hurricanes, expired passports
and paper planes, I’ve spent too
many days contemplating

my retreat;

bridges mean

nothing

to those with wings.

The pain of leaving

sits

crimson in my chest.

Must I fall before first flight?
Skin raw from each defeat:

I jump,

I fall,

I fly.