At 30,000 feet, only the clever calligraphy

of lights from small country towns pierces

the blindfold over the mountains. I press

my head against the window, the better

to see out; but there’s only darkness, and then

a deeper darkness where the cowling

sits like a black monocle on the night’s face,

except for one tiny light I watch below us

down there in all that black; and then it falls behind.

I imagine it’s a porch light they’ve left on

while he helps her down the frozen front steps,

because a fall in her frailty would be a disaster.

He uses the bank card to scrape ice off the windshield

while she waits for the heater to kick in;

their car carefully skirts the debris brought down

by the wind last night, then the onset of traffic

as they come into town. Their faces will never appear

in subsequent posts of the event; scarves and hats kept on,

their heads are always seen from the back, taut-necked,

relentlessly focused on the dais. 

I’ll be sure to read so they can hear me.

​

The Marrow, Issue 7 June 2026