My Poetry Professor

Take Off, Marcel Brouwers

You ask me what I will do when you leave the earth. The best I can say, by way of comfort for all concerned, Is that the contrails will each be a strand of your hair. How else to let it be known that nothing is ever known. At each baggage check, the guards unload our packing; At thirty thousand feet, we already begin to feel lighter And the sun looking over the tops of cumulous clouds Recognizes you. Science dictates that mass stays constant At these heights, but you’ve given up food and the cancer Will have none of it. You’ve taken to twirling a rosary Passed down from your mother and all of her history. The wood’s faded from age and leaves your fingerprints On my arm as you take in all of the Grand Canyon below. We squeeze our knuckles blue during each descent, and kiss. This hollow assurance that landing happens is like me Saying, I’ll be fine; everything will be just alright. Your going only means that some of us are staying Somewhere. These new planes display screens that chart Where we are at all times, and how long it takes To shrink distances. With our runways focused, Your breaths, your memory, are always up for grabs.