1642: Vol de Nuit / Night Flight | Barbara Crooker
"Vol de Nuit / Night Flight"
Barbara Crooker
Now, isn't that more elegant than
taking the Red-Eye?
And don't you love it when the flight attendant
(Remember when she used to be a stewardess?
When everything matched her uniform,
even her luggage, and her makeup was heavy
and impeccable?) hands out pillows, blankets
soft as babies' dreams, eye masks,
ear plugs -- everything Mother would do
but tuck you in and read you a story.
Or maybe she does -- think of the fable
she recites at the beginning of the flight.
Or did you think it was true, that oxygen
miraculously drops from above if the cabin
pressure fails? That your seat cushion becomes
a life preserver if you fall into the black night
of the North Atlantic? That emergency lights
will twinkle and glow, illuminate your path
to the exit chute, little constellations of hope?
Never mind. Relax into your backrest
of many positions. Enjoy the multi-course
many-sectioned meal brought to you hot,
without a kitchen in sight. Hear the tinkle
of the cart as she progresses down the aisle,
find the channel with jazz or blues, and voilà,
you're in Paris already, hours ahead of time.
So the pâté and camembert come in tin foil,
and the roll's hard as an iceberg. Thousands
of miles are rushing under your feet
beneath these silver wings. Soon,
you'll be racing the dawn, as morning throws
her rosy covers over the sky. Brioches,
café au lait, croissants and café noir will roll
down the aisles. You'll begin your long descent
from the land of the clouds. Things
may have shifted overhead. Everyone is speaking
in tongues, and none of them are yours.
You must go to le contrôle de passeports,
and you will need to declare: business
or pleasure. Someone is meeting you
at the gate; he's carrying a baguette
and a single red rose, knows the minute
your plan touches the tarmac.
Now you have reclaimed your luggage,
passed through customs, and entered
the terminal, where the rest
of your life is waiting.
I want sweet ukelele music and birds who drop from the sky.
Barbara Crooker
Now, isn't that more elegant than
taking the Red-Eye?
And don't you love it when the flight attendant
(Remember when she used to be a stewardess?
When everything matched her uniform,
even her luggage, and her makeup was heavy
and impeccable?) hands out pillows, blankets
soft as babies' dreams, eye masks,
ear plugs -- everything Mother would do
but tuck you in and read you a story.
Or maybe she does -- think of the fable
she recites at the beginning of the flight.
Or did you think it was true, that oxygen
miraculously drops from above if the cabin
pressure fails? That your seat cushion becomes
a life preserver if you fall into the black night
of the North Atlantic? That emergency lights
will twinkle and glow, illuminate your path
to the exit chute, little constellations of hope?
Never mind. Relax into your backrest
of many positions. Enjoy the multi-course
many-sectioned meal brought to you hot,
without a kitchen in sight. Hear the tinkle
of the cart as she progresses down the aisle,
find the channel with jazz or blues, and voilà,
you're in Paris already, hours ahead of time.
So the pâté and camembert come in tin foil,
and the roll's hard as an iceberg. Thousands
of miles are rushing under your feet
beneath these silver wings. Soon,
you'll be racing the dawn, as morning throws
her rosy covers over the sky. Brioches,
café au lait, croissants and café noir will roll
down the aisles. You'll begin your long descent
from the land of the clouds. Things
may have shifted overhead. Everyone is speaking
in tongues, and none of them are yours.
You must go to le contrôle de passeports,
and you will need to declare: business
or pleasure. Someone is meeting you
at the gate; he's carrying a baguette
and a single red rose, knows the minute
your plan touches the tarmac.
Now you have reclaimed your luggage,
passed through customs, and entered
the terminal, where the rest
of your life is waiting.
I want sweet ukelele music and birds who drop from the sky.