Our pilot,
Akin to a stressed soccer mom,
Drives fast; tries to out runs the storm
He’s mumbling over the intercom softly.
The cabin walls quiver like a tired lung holding a breath.

We’re just kids,
in the back of the car,
It’s better to sleep like you’re dreaming.
A girl cradles her child’s skull in the
crooked arm that holds her glowing phone.
Their skin breathes through each other
still one body at this stage.

All the men in the room have bowed heads
like nonchalant prayers; their faces in state fake rest.
It feels like our collective mom is pressing the breaks.

The baby’s mouth lies agape with a tear of drool;
its dance descends down like windowpane rain.
There has never been anything to hold onto in this life.

The rain, wet hair moving,
across the airplane’s tired eyes–
We are but tiny babies huddle on the back
of a drowning spider in this storm,
Humbled and choiceless.