Arushee Bhoja

Passage

The seat-belt sign glows in the purple dark
like a mother, like someone to care for me.

When I want to be saved, I imagine
the flight attendants into

heroes. I watch TV and no one yells.
I ring for help

and no one yells. Last week, my mother
thrust me on the porch,

sat me down like a doll against glass
to await the end of her rage. Yes, I pity the sky

and all the sky has seen. But look!
We’re floating over the inside

of a teddy bear. Sun-steeped clouds
carry us past cities of toy cars.

A hundred passengers
bear witness beside me.

Here’s a hot meal,
wrapped lovingly in foil. It crinkles, loud,

when I peel it open. I choose
a cup of ginger ale

and no one is angry. I drink the miles
between myself and the fear

and no one is angry.