I enter the field in a robe
of lavender,
the train
dragging a turbine still
smoldering.
The pilot stirs, kneads
a bruise
on her bicep,
luggage rises from the soil,
coughs ash.
A flight attendant wraps
his wounds
in witch hazel,
the landing gear sparks
at my ankles.
A passenger places a crown
of chamomile
on my head,
threading it with cello strings,
my ears hum.
With a flotation device under
each arm
a man in headphones
swaddles me and sings softly,
his seat scorched.
The smoke blankets beds
of peonies
and poppies,
the turn of my stomach gnaws
its own tongue.
A woman with a boarding pass
in her pocket
wads a handful
of lemon balm into my mouth,
settle, she says.
All the field scares me, even when
all survive.
I open the black box
and it’s filled with red feathers,
a sliver of beak.
The passengers and crew
surround me,
they promise
we’re safe, that everything is fine,
then the fuselage
folds into itself.