The Mail Plane by Camden Michael Jones
I.
We erect our tents on the hardpack
of the town’s airport,
rows
of stakes and guidelines
like
a fishing wharf in the tundra;
the
mail plane comes at one,
an
overfull vulture circling above
before
looping North towards the
Gates of the Arctic for the approach run.
The
landing is a front row rock concert where the bassist only knows one
chord and the drummer is still setting up: the tone resonates in the ooze of
our marrow;
that
is to say, the landing is simple, drifting
over alpine fir and spruce tops
with
ballet grace before cutting power
and
slamming wheels to gravel.
II.
Yesterday’s
rain feeds the Yukon today.
Its
hands reach for a hard cloud ceiling and
its lows, its troughs call my name,
call
my name, call my name,
endless
waves in the river’s center,
arcing
with storm energy
and
grip strength.
III.
Other
planes come, and leave,
and
helicopters set down near us.
We
play cards in their wind,
drink
camp coffee that strains
through
the teeth and plugs the gaps;
we
watch and we wait for
seats that never come,
waiting
to leave this airport runway,
waiting
to fight the big fires.
IV.
We
hear the boats before we see them,
curving
around the clay banks
and
we line our packs along
their
aluminum walls. We
sit in plastic bags to
keep dry of river spray,
I
hear my name again,
and
watch another mail plane
take
off. The hardpack vibrates
under
the wheels, the engines scream
their
one note show, and
the DC-3 sinks off the runway towards
the
Yukon – and us – before catching itself,
then
slowly, so slowly we can almost touch
the
silver belly, it growls to the North
and loops
South towards Fairbanks.
Origami Hands by Camden Michael Jones
We
sit on white plastic chairs and watch
the rain
wash
these streets.
This
is not a last meal;
let us
origami our hands
and
sing our departure songs
to
the mirror glass of the sky.
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