Flight

I cannot be the only one
who feels the sexual tension
between strangers on airplanes,
the altitude flicking the light on
in my womb, like if we’re not careful
we could all break out into orgy
at any second, hips tilting skyward
from the dark seats, everyone naked,
or just naked enough, bathed in
pink sun and the cold sweat of
strange bodies, the O of our mouths
up against the frosted windows
taking all the clouds down our throats,
the windows saying Oh! right back.
Maybe there is something erotic
about the stratosphere, something
about all the formalities of public spaces
tossed up into the air, weightless
like our breath hot on the skin as we
float higher and higher, above weather,
watching as the storm shoots out
its lightning onto the slick earth.
And it is up here we realize the world
was made from excess, from empty
hands reaching out and touching
what they know they shouldn’t.
And if we fall, plummet deathward,
should we not take someone to praise
and to scold, someone to spin us into
a raindrop they wait for open-mouthed.