by Margaret Ricketts
Those apertures, too small to be seen. My
cousin the pilot flew a Delta above the
Pentagon. on 9/11/01. 15 minutes. A
simple, concrete fact, the existence
my family is definitively not living.
After every summer journey, I retain
the napkins, the plastic cups, the
logo - DELTA. Those gingersnap
cookies. Those eight ounces of
liquid - orange juice, white wine,
diet Coke - that hold this knowledge
in part, for a while, so I don’t hold
the full irony, not always. At least ten
thousand of us in this country, a
geography of the intimate strangers.
Sometimes our stories bob up in casual
talk, a nagging unease these strange relics
of travel, this surly gratitude.
Margaret Ricketts is a poet in Berea KY.
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