Sorrow-skin womb, I refused you.
The airplane window forgives me.
Birth is recalled
by flight, its cry the speed required
to blur the earth. Glass sings
to me now about drowning. Sews a static shroud.
The airplane window is the reverse engineering
of the dead. Is the amnesiac tooth
of the moon.
Is how I forgot my own womb,
empty as the Afterlife and white
as the migraine dream that fills the plane.
While my body spills mud in the code.
While my hips chafe the belt,
ghosts and angels are free to move about the cabin.
See them rise and teach the floors to climb?
Down below, a shudder: the pilot light in the stove
of my first flesh house flares out.
Once, I had good knees.
My skin knew the prayer’s liftoff verb, the one
my mouth had lost.
A mouth is an empty window, sometimes
intoning deliver. But not for you,
erased by thunderous light, all this bright machinery shaking:
my love, O vault of the never-born, your touch is a color
they don’t make up here.
Look now: the aisle is a ladder.
The word I let go was deliver.
Saints of launch know how this light wounds through,
the burn changes the skin.