Heather Lang, a poet, editor and literary critic, serves as an adjunct professor at Nevada State College. More of her writing can be found here. Click here to hear an interview and reading from KNPR's "State of Nevada."



This airplane: like hollow bone,

laced with unwanted water,

& still. The body changes angles,

& its underbelly touches yet will

never reach for the sky. But fins

& wings, aren’t they the same

thing, really? In college,

I met a girl who I loved,

but she said that she already

had her friends & I wonder

if we had been together on this flight,

from New York to Las Vegas,

would that have been enough

time for me to change her

mind? This plane with windows,

holes spread as if for careful

fingers or, perhaps, too many eyes

that can only look away. The body

of this airplane, a white seed-

shaped vessel, one that cannot

take root, no matter how we climb.

I wait with white knuckles wondering

if water or air can clump like the dirt

on my shoes, & I think about how

today I love a man named David, but

I still think about that girl.


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