For Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
I see myself in the child in you. Below us I see
fields of sand. Breath is
all there is
This airplane is aluminum and tin, thin
between us and a zillion stars.
I carry the canteen gently to your cracked lips, cradle
your head and let you drink. You clear your throat and tell my favorite story.
Your voice, the engine,
until I drift off
and we drift, we drift.
When I was a child, for a time, books saved me.
I didn’t know the source of danger.
So let slip the controls.
Speak low and soft.
Say amour. My soldier. Artist. Postman. Pilot.
the way it went.
No nosedive, no storm, no
lightning strike. No twisted metal, no flames or fear. No disillusionment, no grief. No bed monster, no boogie man. I steer you planet-ward and steady the rattling craft.
There are important letters for us to deliver.
They overflow the sack between us.
Some come loose,
their pages swirl
like hope, always, chérie, j’adore, frankly, from stories made,
told, retold, remade— in holy lies.
Leigh Lucas holds a BA in Creative Writing from Stanford and MFA in
Creative Writing from Warren Wilson. She lives in the Bay Area and is
working on a book about young love and loss. Read more of her poetry