Poem: "Airplane Poems"
Airplane Poems
I have only now
become acquainted with the meaning of migration.
Yasmeen
Hameed, “I Am Still Awake”
You said,
every Singapore poet has an airplane poem.
Takeoff.
Ascent. Window view. Turbulence. Landing.
We are a
race of travelers and write what we know,
the illusion
of reaching and leaving easily anywhere,
the
airplane, in the language of logistics, an airbridge.
Belting up,
on my annual flight to Singapore, I think,
migration is
the opposite of travel. It initiates a break
that one tries
to stuff with one’s body, like a psycho
pushing the
bag of his victim into the back of his car.
Or one tries
it with flowers, a paper cone of gerberas
lighting the
edge of the grave of every vanished place.
Or else with
airplane poems. Years I used to fall asleep
the moment
the plane took off and sleep until landing.
Not any
more. The belt pinches. The seat constricts.
I’m kept
awake by the cabin light and the body’s aches.
for Ruihe
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