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  • Writer's pictureSarah Donkin

My Last Plane Ride

The city lights under my feet

are stars tucked beneath the clouds, and

I hurtle through the center of the galaxy

between shaky wings.

The wind is singing to the windows

with a sleepy, cracking voice

while cabin lights try to

hide the darkness and the sparkling points of

light outside from nervous eyes and

steady hands. The flight relies on

mystery and fairy dust, shimmering

between dials and around the exterior.

The stars are above and below me

for three hours and I only

wake up when the plane's wheels

touch the ground.

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