The plane descends forever—
at least it feels much longer
than an opera
or a marriage.
Slightly contorted, head forward,
maybe snoring
disconcerted
I wake at intervals
not down yet then drift
again to an in-between,
which is how
to stretch
a lifetime.
The teaching book I love
to hate says jets
feel fastest on take off
and on landing
the points of reference blurring into treetreetree
at closest range—though
the middle stretch—
its ocean or its farmland everlasting—
is really where the plane makes
time.
The take off’s where I catch my breath.
The landing’s where I let breath loose.
The holding’s in between.
The teaching book
says it’s best when time feels pressed
like constant take off/landing,
says urgency’s exciting.
says keep the students guessing.
How have we marked our days, husband?
With the inch-along
of work deadlines, dentist visits, loose receipts,
the whirl of kid parties:
piñatas and green frosting.
Hold tight, my love. Our time is passing.
Emily Pérez is the author of What Flies Want, winner of the Iowa Prize and a finalist for a Colorado Book Award; House of Sugar, House of Stone, and two chapbooks. She co-edited the anthology The Long Devotion: Poets Writing Motherhood, also a finalist for a Colorado Book Award. A CantoMundo fellow and Ledbury Critic, her work has appeared in Kenyon Review, Copper Nickel, The Guardian, and Poetry. She teaches high school in Denver, where she lives with her family.