Crashing Down

The plane tugs downward,

just as we take off.

Fear-smell like sweat, and the eyes of toddlers

desperately look to me.

“We’ll be alright,” I want to shout

but the force of crashing down

pulls the words back into me,

the seatbelt straining,

then darkness crashes too.

We make it, somehow,

responsibility tugs me onward.

“We’ll be alright,” I tell them

and I wonder if they believe me.

Meteorites crash around us,

then shelter, warmth, surrounds us,

and when we sleep, we call it crashing.

Funny,

how a feeling can suspend through a dream,

its wings made invisible,

fluttering

with hummingbird speed.

I’m humming the song

I was supposed to teach them this week.

The hum echoes and our cave is safe,

Tomorrow it won’t be,

and a phrase tugs at my sleeve.

“Remember this song,” I try to say,

and then the dream crashes.

I wake up and have forgotten everything.

Wiped clean,

but for the feeling.