by Gemma Cooper-Novack

That’s just where I’ve decided
you are. All I know is you’re waiting in an airport as I am, between
Arkansas and the Grand Canyon, about to wing
home. You travel light and square-shouldered, wrists close against
backpack straps, and you’re trying to leave airport and road
trip behind you, stand alone in geological grandeur, maybe trying not to
think of me. The airplane rises and the city regroups
into mollusks of light, you are leaning now
on the window and watching, cheek and forehead arced against the plastic
wall. You didn’t know Tulsa, drifted into it out of
convenience, and here you are flying—there’s something to be
said for that. I don’t know that it was Tulsa at all, but you’re not
falling asleep the way I am, I think you’re as astonished by
crossing above clouds as you are by poetics or lacework, anything linked
together, holding you. You won’t call me when you land,
will shoulder your backpack again and go home, where there’s water
pressing up and everything else is quiet.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.

gemma_bganske_web6Gemma Cooper-Novack is a writer, writing coach, and arts educator who lived in New York, Chicago, and Pokuase, Ghana before moving to Boston. She  writes poetry, fiction, plays and articles. She enjoys walking on stilts in her spare time.

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