an airplane for innocence
I
the ticket slightly bent in the corner
swathed like an infant
in the uncracked royal blue of
the passport. my shoes, practical, black, plain
squeaked and slid on the slick
floor, chased by the rubbery wheels
of the old suitcase i had borrowed from my grandmother.
languages burst the dry air like promises
eating up the plastic tables, the overpriced
chocolates and the electrical outlets no one could find.
then, i would hear it lounging in the corner
dancing in front of my tired eyes la belle langue
and i would breath a little faster because demain
it would be mine.
our flight came at seven, dix-neuf heures,
just as my eyes were beginning to water.
the carpet was gray with specks of dirt,
and as i walked i thought:
tu me manque, le monde,
donne-moi l'avenir
pendant que mes emprientes
trailed like ribbons
i settled into the stiff plane,
my heart comme une oiseau
ready to leave,
ready to fly
demain, je pensais,
l'avenir, c'est demain
II
first, it's london.
the girl beside me turns her phone to the window,
her nose pressed against the plexiglas as she
takes a time-lapse of our landing: the gray of the city,
the dusty trail of the thames bleeding together.
then, zurich.
we walk out like seamen,
arms swinging, legs uncertain on the cracked pavement.
strands of graffiti tangle on a brick wall
delicate yellow flowers sprinkle between
the browns and grays.
we shed our jackets like skins,
as the bus putters,
the driver doesn't speak much english,
but we don't care
we know where we're going
Et puis, la france
qui emerge dans les arbres
avec toute l'élégance d'une rêverie
III
and then i know as the gray turns to gold,
the brown to green and
my heart races in my chest, that this is it.
ce n'est pas la fin: c'est le début.
after years of tagged pages in travel books,
a stack of french-to-english dictionaries hoarding the spotlight on my bookshelf,
and too many atlases to count
here is the world brushing against my fingertips.
c'est les cartes where paris is spelled in block letters that
explode against my tongue as I buy gelato on the street,
i find street names in the dirt that coats my new shoes
and landmarks in the colors caught in my camera screen
as the map spells itself with life.
IV
stepping on the plane,
i knew something had died
and something born.
childhood, the lingering breath
of fresh-air, where the world around you could
just as easily be the world across oceans
if you closed your eyes.
childhood had been surged
and broken
and built up by the vastness of the world.
But innocence,
the child who sleeps soundly at night,
a blanket under her chin
a stuffed bear clutched in her arms.
the simple goodness.
the marriage of naivete and hope,
had crumbled,
and in its place was a desire as deep
and secret as atlantis to know
the world and everything in it.