Wanting to Land

By Emiko Bowers

The plane
skimmed the water
wanting to land

 

It let one metal toe
then the other
dip into a millimeter of hot salt-spray
then shot straight back into the air

 

Maybe the water was
full of spiders
or truth
that scared it away

 

But it was running out of fuel
It touched down again (too hard)
and buried itself ten feet under
thrashing

 

But planes don’t have propellers anymore
(So, what is that?)

 

It fought back toward the surface
until the water took the hint and
threw it up to the clouds
where it fell instantly back down

 

And continued to skip
like a stone
through her head

 

Sit There

 

The walls are dead white. And, my eyeballs are made of Vaseline.
Prickling scales creep left along the edge of my vision.
I blink once, my lids closing
slowly, cautious against scraping off the soft glaze of my irises.

 

The heat of my roommate’s composting soul
slips in-between the slats on the a.c.,
condensing above her head.
Fruit flies swarm in and out of the rotten hole in her chest.
Their wish, wishing crescendos until I shut my eyes
and squeeze out a beckoning tear of congealed fat.

 

Tiny sets of feet land on my face,
burrowing past my eyelashes in pairs
until my sockets are full.
They push at my lids and sinuses.
They wriggle through my blood and down my arms,
bubbling back to the surface of my skin
like blackheads rising through pancakes

 

 

Emiko Bowers is a musician, music educator, and creative writer with a love for teaching and encouraging creativity in others. She recently graduated from Wright State University with a Bachelor of Music in Music Education and a Bachelor of Arts in English, Creative Writing.