A peach pink line cuts through the sky at dusk,
a plane coming in for a sunset landing, so many
humans having been somewhere else. If I were not
already here, I'd want to be home.
I don't travel anymore. I make excuses:
the cost, my dog, flying, inconvenience, discomfort.
It's gotten embarrassing, like the clatter
of empty bottles, their skinny necks, residual fumes.
I awake with a spider-legged dread.
I belong in a story they won't let me forget.
Another gathering of Jews bullet-sprayed.
Ancestral warnings. Shocked not surprised.
Hiding is one way to survive but no way
to live. I stay home, sweep crumbs, feed
the dog, pay bills. I fold sheets, make toast.
A plane? You mean you can go anywhere?
You Still Can by Lynn Glicklich Cohen | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
