She tells me that she loves the parts
of planes, the grease and muscle of them,
the wing flaps, engines, every smallest hinge. She
the bits of rubber that wear off wheels with every
thick black streaks on runway.
She loves the cockpit window, glare of the horizon,
constellation of dials and gauges, all the stories
instruments tell. She loves the calibrated sky.
She loves the light above the clouds, how the
intensifies, a killing icy blue. In that thinnest
all her planes are still aloft
and she can live forever, flying, swears it.