Ungodly Height

May 10 2012

Most airplanes are painted white.

To make them seem lighter.

To ease our disbelief

in miraculous flight.

Perhaps this is what sustains

this massive machine

at such ungodly height.

The collective will

of sweaty palms

and tightly clenched teeth,

the concentrated thought

of a hundred souls

who all believe.

Who may have been schooled

in drag, lift, and speed,
seen planes ascend

with graceful ease.

Felt the power of wind

yet still can’t resist

the snake of doubt,

the hiss

of uncertainty.

Most miracles must be taken on faith,

waving incense

clutching amulets.

But here,

so near to heaven

with heathen admissions of death,

we console ourselves

with laws of physics

a shot of Scotch,

ritual cruising

the rite of taking off.

Where the drone of engines

is meditation

a balm.

Although for one heretical moment

I was overcome by a vision

of fuel dumped, altitude lost

luggage frantically tossed,

overhead bins

ransacked for carry-on.

A random congregation

of crew, and passengers

imploring the god of gravity,

desperate to stay aloft.

When the plane pitched, and dropped

and I swiftly barred the thought.

Because we must all devoutly believe

in this cramped aluminum container.

Only then

can sinners be forgiven,

the fallen, raised.