Poet of the Week: Breauna L. Roach
For the 15 year old stowaway who
survived a flight in the barrel of a jet
They say you should have frozen.
Your body found
on the next routine inspection
stiff bitter bold
broken ribs collapsed into themselves
folded in like arms.
You say
I fell asleep.
You don’t remember
much after the plane’s ascent
but you trusted
it would take you to a better place.
Once they release you to your father,
he tries to explain:
He must have been homesick for Africa.
The beckoning of the far-familiar
is constant
is not quiet.
We want to go back.
The firm.
We can’t go back.
The futile.
Surviving at 35,000 feet
with no supplemental oxygen supply —
I just don’t believe it
says Good Morning America.
But I know
how we turned the body into cargo
how we flew
cloaked in the certainty of conviction
and cut into a dreamin which we arrived—
a package unwrapped
with warmth
or unwelcome.