William Fargason
As he drove silent up Morgan Road toward
the airport, as if in a funeral procession,
everything became a plane—the street signs
no longer fixed to their poles, the road
beneath him a track of air he moved upon,
the trees beside him other planes on their
separate courses. The roofs of the houses
lifted off, higher, then even higher. Even the hawks
overhead looked like planes, hanging there
above him like a child's mobile, turning slowly
above the crib, just out of reach. And as he drove
he closed his eyes, and for that moment
the sound of his truck's engine could've been
the plane picking up speed down the runway,
that final flight, his hands pulling the yoke back
as he climbed. He says mostly what he remembers
about that day is opening the hangar for the last time,
the silver door moving slower than usual.
The green body of the plane became a mallard
circling a pond, my father throwing bits of bread
from the shore. Each rivet in each metal plate
seemed to unhinge, pulled apart to become
a living blueprint, the skeleton of a child. The echo
of every pre-takeoff taxi up the runway, saying Cherokee Three
Eight Niner Six Whiskey asking to takeoff runway two . . .
you are cleared for takeoff. He told me he needed
the money, each future dollar floated above him
like a flock of starlings. But this was never about
money, or it always was. His eyes were failing,
cataracts blooming like the clouds he once
was able to fly above. And when he handed
the keys over he said he cried a little,
which the other man didn't understand.