Ascent
       

I surrendered my butane lighter to you at the gate—
but not my pigeon, not my raisinet heart in four pieces.

Explosives lined my lung, you
defused them. You tore my ticket.

Now you're miming how to fasten
a seat belt, but I—giraffe-scruffy, dehydrated,

love-starved-am already strapped in,
tray table up. Sputter,

growl, groan and fire, fire, we're flying on a globe
of cloud above the dying, lit-up

city, into wind shear, geese, BB-sized hail—
my briefing card says our exits

have inflatable slides, the cushions
float. You and I fly and rattle.

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Copyright © 2013 Greg Wrenn All rights reserved
from Centaur
The University of Wisconsin Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission