Yesterday a man was sucked out of an airplane over the blue tipped
mountains of Bolivia. He didn't cry "emergency." He didn't buzz the
stewardess. He just dropped his fork, opened his mouth, and let the wind
gather him inch by inch.
The other passengers agreed. This was real life, better than the movie
or chicken salad. They leaned out of their seats, envying the man, arms and
legs spread like a sheet, discovering raw air and the breath of migrating
angels.
Below, an old peasant woman beats her tortilla. She never dreamed that
above her a man was losing his heart. Perhaps she was a barren woman and,
when he landed, she'd say, "Yes, this is my son, a little old and a little
late, but still my son."
And the man, he thought of wind and flocks of severed wings, then closed
his eyes and arched himself again. He didn't understand. His head began to
ache. He understood Buicks, red hair, the smell of day old beer. But not
these clouds, this new, white sunlight, or the fate of a man from Sandusky,
Ohio.
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The Prose Poem