You, I might miss the most, with your abalone hulls and coffee pot. Briefing in the clouds, the pressure-regulating earplugs twist diplomacy into feathers and precipitation. In you, my spouse
shone; my shadow did not play across her hair when we ascended together. Cabin pressure thinned terrestrial pressures; the recycled air swam in my lungs. Earth, here, had no tether,
nothing stronger than the unfelt cresting of the jet stream. The blue beyond white befriends all within curved walls, behind curved desk, flying a curving trajectory. But now I descend,
a drooping duck, back to the mud and mundanity. In dreams, I no longer fall, but fly.
-- Diana Smith Bolton is the founding editor of District Lit, an online journal of fiction, poetry, and visual art. Her poems have appeared in 32 Poems, anderbo, Magic Lantern Review, elimae, Cartography from Imagination & Place Press, and elsewhere. She lives in northern Virginia.