Keegan Lester

The Topography of Airports

 

 

a second time.

 

doesn’t feel so bad when saying it.

 

a direction towards:

 

we are nowhere.

 

we raveled into Iowa,

 

re-ravel into Johannesburg or almost

 

anything, as handfuls of finger paint.

 

before home was a girl scout’s malaria

 

shaped merit badge,

 

everything posing as music.

 

before I’d ever seen stars, I wished

 

upon palm trees

 

bent by the wind,

 

that one day they too could fall

 

and be strange.

 

easy to confuse for a foreign city:

 

here, heart also means feet

 

when waiting & waiting on until then

 

to happen, & I’ve forgotten where…

 

someone else’s native tongue

 

from my mouth, soft

 

as I could speak &

 

as long as I could outrun furrows

 

when the water was bad

 

in West Virginia & because the water

 

is still bad in West Virginia

 

& it’s my home: we, our only garden

 

to be conscious in

 

& still: the sky a field,

 

as is the lean-to and a thin horizon

 

of wheat. It was easy

 

to turn into the tiny

 

gondolas overhead

 

that my grandfather

 

watched as a child.

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