the blueshift journal

 

Let’s unbraid your hair, wet for bed,

and comb it loose. Let’s talk like sisters.

See this photo? The pilot half stands—

 

summer making shadows
of the grains in his cheek.
His uniform pulls tight at the cuffs.

 

His sister’s here, watching him
like a window pushed open, today

letting air in. He looks at you instead:

 

his eyes are hooks
inked with little feathers of light.

See what I mean?

 

his sister seems to say,

unscrewing a jar of pickles.

The runway blurs

 

at 110 miles per hour,
wheels lifting up above a snowy scar

the way the mind silvers, sad.

 

He’s at his mother’s house
on leave—where is she? Mom

he worries at the lens. Mom?