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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