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February 22, 2017 Poetry


Sarah Fuss Kessler

Hallway photo

Flying east, the plane lodged itself into night while passengers slept under fleeces pulled from plastic envelopes, but I was awake over Greenland, warring with air vents, paperback under my thigh, thoughts split before departure and after arrival, except when the captain directed the attention of us sleepless few through egg-shaped windows, and I saw the Northern Lights from above, biblical shafts at the horizon, lit hallway through the seam of a door, and my hand hesitated over the stranger next to me, eyelashes pressing her cheeks, humid breath out her nose, chin clipping the fleece, and, my god, I remember how badly I wanted her to see.


image: Carabella Sands