"Quick, Henry, the Flit"
u
Sleeping Next to the Man on the Plane
o
I'm not well. Neither is he.
I'm not well. Neither is he.
Periodically he pulls out a handkerchief
and blows his nose. I worry
about germs, but appreciate how he shares
the armrest—-- especially
considering his size—-- too large
to lay the tray over his lap.
His seatbelt barely buckles. At least
he doesn't have to ask for an extender
for which I imagine him grateful. Our upper arms
press against each other, like apricots growing
from the same node. My arm is warm
where his touches it. I close my eyes.
In the chilly, oxygen-poor air, I am glad
to be close to his breathing mass.
We want our own species. We want
to lie down next to our own kind.
Even here in this metal encumbrance, hurtling
improbably 30,000 feet above the earth,
with all this civilization -- down
to the chicken-or-lasagna in their
environmentally-incorrect packets,
even as the woman behind me is swiping
her credit card on the phone embedded
in my headrest and the folks in first
are watching their individual movies
on personal screens, I lean
into this stranger, seeking primitive comfort --
heat, touch, breath—-- as we slip
into the ancient vulnerability of sleep.
hl
from Mules of Love. © BOA Editions, 2002.
llb
I heard this on NPR tonight, just after I walked through the door. Garisson Keilor reads well, and besides his Prairie Home Companion radio how and his books, he's got a great thing going with The Writer's Almanac. I quite like this poem. I recommend you take a look at today's entry, in which he writes more than I ever knew about Shalom Aleichem, whose birthday was today. He also mentions another birthday, which google (and this post title) tips its hat to as well.
II
posted by rabbi neil fleischmann @ 8:22 PM
3 Comments:
I love the poem. When I traveled four years ago from NYC to Indianapolis via Greyhound Bus, my seatmate was a very young Chicano man -- a housepainter in New Haven -- going home to visit his family in south Texas. He was a personable kid and I enjoyed chatting with him. At night, I occasionally woke up to find my head resting lightly on his shoulder. He never said a word, and I never apologized for intruding on his space or his person.
In that dark bus I was anyone's mom, he was anyone's child, we were fellow travelers in an "encumbrance" (to quote the poem) whooshing across Ohio farmland in blackest night, and our proximity was comforting so far from home. So I totally know what the poet is saying, and thank her for saying it (and you for sharing it here).
When I have an obese seatmate on a plane, I'm leaning as far away as I can get, not as close as I can get.
Anne, thanks. i shared it with some adolecents (sp?) today and they just got goofy over it, couldn't get it.
Kishke, I hear ya.
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