I am spiraling outwards,

tracing a path between the heavy clouds,

wondering how I can show you

where I am travelling.

 

How can I measure

the distance?

The highways below

roll out like measuring tape,

carelessly cutting the land

into primary shapes.

These reflections in the thick airplane window

 

green, blue, and yellow

mixing together,

out of reach.

This impossible distance

we are crossing together.

 

I close my eyes and listen

to the hum of the engine,

and the tired conversations between the rows

of warn out seats.

 

My head rolls back and forth.

I drift in and out of sleep.

The cabin lights flick on again.

I’m forgetting how to keep still and

 

how to measure time.

Thirty-six hours, divided in half.

Leaving and arriving on the same day

while minutes and hours slip through the lines

of the calendar.

 

Then, the pause, the stopover,

twelve hours of breathing space

in a place where I can’t read the signs.

I lie on the vinyl floor,

and pass out,

thinking of home,

the one behind and the one

I don’t know yet.

 

The second half flies by

quicker. The cabin air is

tighter, bouncing against the windows

waiting for us to land.

I am spiraling outwards,

tracing a path between the heavy clouds,

wondering how I can show you

where I am travelling.

 

And when we touch the ground

I start to feel weightless

as if I have been everywhere and nowhere.

Suspended, still.

 

In the terminal we form a queue

and I wonder what I have to declare.

I’m handed a square piece of paper

and asked to spell out my destination.

Grease streaked suitcases and gladwrapped boxes

circle around a conveyor belt.

I am dizzy with forgetfulness.

 

Green, blue, and yellow

mixing together,

out of reach.

This impossible distance

we are crossing together.

 

The air outside hits me

with a strange familiarity.

A sudden urge to run, again,

while sinking into the ground.

 

©Grace Finlayson and Serena Chalker 2015