BY JIM PASCUAL AGUSTIN
I am flying over masses
of land in the dark, over places
with streets I may never walk,
names I cannot pronounce
except with an excited stutter.
Aki, child barely a month
from turning three, in a few hours
you will knock on the door
to my room, call me for breakfast.
I take a few steps away from my seat,
desperate to shake the tiredness
of limbs unaccustomed to stasis.
A stewardess, red lips beaming, grabs
my hand and points out a window
no bigger than two hands outstretched:
lightning flashes in the distance.
But there will be no uncle ready
to burst out and chase you
into fits of laughter.
Clouds beating, flowers lit up
from inside curled petals. Breaking
the darkness closing in on us.