Just turbulence, the doctor says,
blood swishing and clicking
through your valves
like wind manhandling
a plane. Concentrate,
another woman says,
on your trapped and
thudding heart as you think
about your father.
Luggage of organs
judders in cargo
blamelessly. Maybe
it’s pilot error, maybe
the weather, never
the child in the window seat.
An adult can imagine
unlocking the hatch. A breeze
whooshes in, passengers
climb out, aged
by the chaos but mostly
free now, shedding layers,
having arrived at a plain-
spoken safety where clouds
hurry innocently past.
