The Lines That Planes Leave in the Sky
I can imagine it, you know:
me in my straw hat and sunburn and you
picking a tomato and throwing it
into the dirt,
a plump home for larvae—
Yannick says piff
like a vocal cloud, I don’t think
I’ve met anyone else
who can launch into expression
like some almighty splash,
he’s swimming after our dingy
all over again—
and slowly the home would grow around us,
I’m dreaming of tripping over your underwear
drawing flowers in the cheap wood
of the cutlery drawer.
But this is not a bridge, burning or otherwise.
I know, I know. I never learn.
Anyway you are sitting by a river somewhere else
and here the beams rot, before I built a thing, that won’t do
for a house or even a lean-to, to keep the wind out.
And I’m not waving to the shore,
exactly, only my fingertips keep above water
just to remember the air.
Jini Maxwell writes and draws. She appears as @astroblob on Instagram, and as a charmander in the real world.
Artwork provided by Loni Jeffs.