by Betsy Mars
“we live and move and have our being / here, in this curving and soaring world / that is not our own” –Julie Cadwallader Staub, "Blackbirds"
Each body with its own gravity, each a potential
projectile, catapulting beyond our limits.
We pin on wings, ignore warnings, leave
our belts uncinched, bang on overhead bins.
projectile, catapulting beyond our limits.
We pin on wings, ignore warnings, leave
our belts uncinched, bang on overhead bins.
Oxygen masks dangle like buttercups, lines tangled
rice noodles, seatbacks cracked, someone’s hair floats
feathering above. In galleys: scattered wine bottles,
kiwi slices, coffee urns, snacks, the aftermath.
If we could see the air ahead would we swerve,
fly below, rise above? How many words
for this invisible curve are there in
blackbird tongue, imperceptible to us?
We weather the storm. Again, ask for
mercy, oscillate, tally the toll.
Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, a photographer, and assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. whose poems can be found in numerous online journals and print anthologies. She has two books, Alinea, and In the Muddle of the Night, co-written with Alan Walowitz. Betsy is currently and sporadically working on a full-length manuscript titled Rue Obscure.
