Flight 221 leaves in the early morning

by Alexa Lemoine

& suddenly the dense body that makes up
this land, my home, is a frightful fissure.

my eyes are the trusted wreck i navigate with,
like a drunk pilot tumbling through red eye

& from here, america looks like ten shades of the rotten terrain.
america is a black hole filled with the cities it’s

consumed. raw, savage grace. the grass fields at the edge of this country
call to be the new burial ground for all of my bad habits.

my city doesn’t hold me anymore, & the void of america’s fringes
is the most intoxicating siren song.

the cave of my mouth has never tasted anything so decadent. it begins
to swallow the rest of america’s dirt & it tastes more pure

meeting the crevices of want & change under my lungs. every bellyful reminds me
of the swelling oceans bracketing my hips. how all that sweet water needs a new place

to call home. i’ve grown out of the city that stood me on my own two feet
with every passing year my limbs grow out the doors & windows & take flight.

my soft, still hands reach
& try to pick up the wreckage & the mess & the loss of innocence.

remind me to write about what america tastes like
from the sky’s grey ceiling.

remind me to send my love
to this wailing land.

remind me to tell you how i tried to be as
merciful with myself as i could.