By Cameron Calonzo
On the plane to America there was a child
stuffed in the overhead compartment.
I heard it—the soft cries echoing hollowly
through the plastic above my head.
I stared out the window for a while. I stared at my hands.
The flight attendant came by with water and peanuts
but I let them fall off my lap. Felt the ice burn through my sock.
Wished on a star through the glass
but it turned out to be a bird and fell out of frame.
I think I’ve had enough of this life; I want to move on.
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Cameron Calonzo is a high school student from Southern California. She writes “because she is a poor conversationalist.”
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