Flight

Jenny Bornholdt

It came to pass

that I boarded a plane

and as I edged past the man

in the aisle seat he said

My name is Dov. I knew

you would come.

So Dov came to pass

and then the next thing

came to pass which was

the plane, which fell through the air

so that all felt and understood

the word “slew.”

We held the hands of those

next to us. Dov’s hand. Dov

who knew I would come.

The hand of my son, who said

Hang on, I’ll just finish listening

to this song.

And it came to pass

that in those seconds of fall

we entered the deluge zone

which was dark and dangerous

and it came to pass

that we thought things

we hadn’t thought before

and understood things

that couldn’t be said out

loud or even in our quiet

pulpy insides.

We understood

that children sucked life

from their mothers

then led it back in

in mysterious ways.

We understood

that men damaged children

in shocking unspeakable

ways and in quiet

secretive ways and in silence

and murk.

Somehow

dandelions marjoram

thistle and thrush

came to pass.

And a bank teller

named “Snow.”

And then it came to pass

that we turned away

from where we were headed

because the wind there

was too strong

to land safely on one engine.

We turned away

from the wind bothering the trees,

flaying pansies, knocking lemons

one against another;

away from hymns ancient and

modern, from the holes

dug in the garden for kitchen scraps

that resemble graves

prepared for a succession

of small animals.

Away we turned, back

to a runway on which waited

emergency vehicles

and so it came to pass

that we touched ground

whole, feeling lucky

and afraid.

Being out of danger

it came to pass

that we broke the chain of hands

that held us, though not the chain

of thoughts — that held.

And held. And led us

to the tightly fenced park

where bodies lie, decomposing,

terrifying yet natural,

faces slurred into earth,

and to the deer who come

and delicately nuzzle bone.