by Jim McKenna
Surging down aisles, haphazardly
filing into their quarters: sardines packed
air tight and pressurized.
One takes her seat next to me, distinctly
and routined, pale overhead lighting
reflecting off of her young scales.
Swift flick of her fin, I’m left
looking at a blank profile, no
other world to be seen: just
this plane, our fishbowl.
Angry, I postulate, but no,
fish lack in emotion, and
we take off anyway.
I would much rather preoccupy myself
with the clouds, though. At least they promise
change: sometimes you fly above them
and you remember when you thought God
was up there and you think that maybe he
still is or if he’d even been up here at all, or
you fly through them and you worry how
your family would react if you crashed
and you grip onto your phone so you
can dial quickly when you begin to nosedive.
Even with the window closed I make my own
portal, eventually. That’s the thing with her, and
other shade closers for that matter, they’re
comfortable—it’s safe.
She knew what was in here, but feared what lay
beyond it. Her closed eyes couldn’t see
that we had already taken the bait.
Jim McKenna is from Cherry Hill, New Jersey and a student at Florida Southern College where he studies English with a focus in writing.
Hawaii Pacific Review 