Shades of Blue

SARA CLINE

I think memories weigh 
no heavier than an ounce 
of silver or swimming pool water 
because an ounce is an ounce 
is announcing your departure 
group A 1-15 we hope you feel 
secure on this heavenly day 
breathing our rarified air 
crisp as a fresh seal pup 
or the kiss of gunmetal 
on a cirrus cloud the man 
next to you is snoring loud 
and honest living on 
borrowed light he dreams 
what he cannot remember 
and you remember that you 
cannot dream the seatbelt 
sign dings there is no time 
for reverie only drums 
in your ears collapsing 
stomach feeling the hurtle 
toward unforgiving ground 
your floating time capsule 
is pulling apart at metal 
seams begging to split open 
and release your tiny frames 
like acid rain dropping hard 
and fast forward you lurch you 
do not remember landing 
or how you got into the airport 
or if you even brought luggage 
what you do know is 
there were no peanuts 
it’s 3:38 in SF 
and partly cloudy

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SARA CLINE is a queer, disabled, autistic poet born and bred in Plano, Texas. She holds an MFA from the University of Washington and is a recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize. Her work has been platformed by Poets.org, Fourteen Poems’ Eff-able Anthology, A Velvet Giant, and Off Topic Publishing, among others.