Overnight
Flight
by
Henry Ahrens
Over
hill poured beaker fog
but
our plane slipped away
before
it dissolved.
Soon
enough my earphones fell out
then
the man in front of you lost his spine,
turned
to gelatin, head jiggling.
You
slipped your shirt off—
night
terror came
screaming
over the continent.
The
attendant stared
when
you fell asleep shirtless,
I
shrugged at her—kids.
Night
fell away gently,
parts
of the plane rained in sprinkles,
soft
wafting, engine whining
to
the furthest diving
of
subconscious thought.
After
long descent,
aircraft
reassembled
among
streaking blue lights,
touched
down solid ground.
We
put your shirt back on
and
shuffled through the terminal.
Henry
Ahrens
attended St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana, but now resides
in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he teaches a variety of high school
English classes. His works have appeared in From the Edge of the
Prairie, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Indiana Voice Journal.