Bird, Plane

Planes make the sound of falling,
discordant streak of brakes
humming close enough to worry
they will land atop
the home we’ve made
with two dogs resting on the back porch
wet wool rug and rusted railings
fourteen years of peeling paint
between us and sky.
If I lie flat and still
across a bed of dogs
as the landing gear
knocks the house down around us
will the passengers say look!
she is trying to survive!

As I stuff too many coloreds
in the wash and whites
in the dryer
I can’t make it out in time.
Will they find me crushed
barely breathing
beneath the rubble of laundry
and plaster and a life
in dire need of fixing?

The metal squeal of blue jay
says to quit my whining
the planes are landing
where planes land.
birds hide their worry well.

Oh! my neglected nest
my poor little chickadees
the unfinished upstairs room
dust and papers and books
the next meal
bad dreams and lost keys
and planes that fly too low!


- - - - -

[Edited to add: The above poem was not written in response to the anniversary of 9/11. It is a response to an overwhelming sadness I have felt lately, the lack of ability to control things, worry over money, fear of everything, and, in the clutter of it all, the things that make it all worthwhile—my daughter, for instance—get sacrificed. That I wrote this days before the fifth anniversary of 9/11 could not be helped. When inspiration flies overhead, you wave it in.

But the truth is that the sound of planes would never have been an issue. Sure, we had heard loud planes for dozens of years before the event and perhaps wondered if they were closer than usual. But the fear of them, the fear of the possibility that they could come down like a shot duck, was, until five years ago, probably only in the minds of those few who had witnessed a plane coming down.

So is it about 9/11 specifically? No. Of course not. But is it a comment on a culture of fear to which 9/11 most definitely belongs? Indeed.

Thanks to those who commented.]