Nov 9, 2007
My mother, she taught me how to make it.
She used to prepare the materials
and lay them on the dining table for me.
Paper, ruler, scissors, cutter,
cup of tea- to warm my stomach
in the mornings when I tucked
these memories beneath the folds:
the color of her knuckles
prying my tiny hands off her leg,
the sound of my wails
bouncing off airport halls,
and the overhead cabin lights
that for the first time
I had to reach on my own.
I made slits for air and view
using angles that made flight possible-
for paper planes are better than real ones,
those made of steel, because no cup of tea
made by flight attendants
could ever warm my stomach.
But my mother taught me how to make it,
this speck of white that soared
in the expanse of blue,
a paper plane, a keepsake
trimmed and folded to make
an absence less than total.
Labels: childhood, paper planes, poetry
