I enter the field in a robeof lavender, the traindragging a turbine still smoldering.
The pilot stirs, kneadsa bruise on her bicep,luggage rises from the soil, coughs ash.
A flight attendant wrapshis wounds in witch hazel,the landing gear sparks at my ankles.
A passenger places a crownof chamomile on my head,threading it with cello strings, my ears hum.
With a flotation device undereach arm a man in headphonesswaddles me and sings softly, his seat scorched.
The smoke blankets bedsof peonies and poppies,the turn of my stomach gnaws its own tongue.
A woman with a boarding passin her pocket wads a handfulof lemon balm into my mouth, settle, she says.
All the field scares me, even whenall survive. I open the black boxand it’s filled with red feathers, a sliver of beak.
The passengers and crewsurround me, they promisewe’re safe, that everything is fine, then the fuselage
folds into itself.