In Memory of Flight MH-370
The cockpit dashboard blinks
A thousand eyes
Each dial a finger
Spinning him somewhere
Far beyond the star-rimmed sky
His head in a twist
Which way should he turn?
The continents whirl a dervish dance
The roar of the engine becomes
A soft insect bite on his ear
He slips a hand inside his pocket
And pulls out a feather
Puckered, grey-blue
Tender like an early-morning kiss
He presses the feather against his cheek
And the day comes back
The wounded bird
From a long-ago childhood
He’d knelt by the roadside
Knees powdered in dust
Deaf to his mother’s impatient tugging hand
Carefully he’d plucked the single drooping feather
His stare never leaving the bird’s stone-hard eye
That even then foretold his death
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