Joyride

 

I’ve flown before, but never been the pilot.

 

Wedged into a small economy-class seat,

Eating tiny bags of salty peanuts,

Anesthetized from small plastic bottles of chardonnay in a plastic cup—

I regarded the clouds with indifference,

While the men in the cockpit dictated my safe ascent, and descent.

 

After three glasses of wine it hits me—

Cockpit.

A sealed control room of men.

I laugh sadly.

Don’t they let women fly?

 

I didn’t know what to expect when I boarded the plane.

I’ve flown before but never been the pilot.

 

It was time—

They didn’t see it coming.

It was wrong.

I knew it was wrong,

But I did it anyway.

 

It was easier than I thought.

I became a hijacker.

Once you cross that line,

There’s no changing your mind.

 

I didn’t know what to expect when I boarded the plane.

I’ve flown before but now I am the pilot.

 

I got that bird’s nose up,

Gasping at the exhilaration of the speed, the sudden lift.

I was not afraid of you, or them, or anyone—

Not even when they scrambled the fighter jets,

Not even when the air traffic controller tried to talk me down.

I swirled and circled,

Did loop the loops and barrel rolls.

 

Ladies, gentlemen, this is not an air show.

This is the real deal.

 

There were a lot of people that cared for me—

It’s going to disappoint them.

I apologize,

But I’m just a broken girl.

Got a few screws loose, I guess.

Never really knew it until now.

 

The fuel and the funds will run low,

But I recite poems aloud.

And know

The flight recorder captures every word.

 

They will be found.

Smoking, hissing, crackling,

Rising through the sunlit leaves—

Amidst the smoldering wreckage of my joyride.

 

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