by Sherry Rind

​

​

The Skyhawk slipped through a hole in the firmament,

diving sharply before straightening its shoulders

and bouncing down the rutted road to a banana field

where it stopped, nosing the green fruit

as if ready to browse.

                                    In a silence like listening

the four aboard sat for one full minute

unable to account for their lives.

 

                                    The pilot thought

he might become a painter

and his wife thought the recurring dream of swimming

through leaves thrown open like arms

ended here

                                    while the boy and girl in back

jumbled through broken bananas,

bruised knees, and bragging rights at school

and life resumed its going out and its coming in

and the oxen assumed their polished yokes and red embroidery

to pace the day’s circles, wringing cane stalks dry.