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The Airport Vortex

Updated: Aug 1, 2020

Light plays on my closed eyelids. Adrenaline

surges though my body. I inhale deeply and open my eyes.

We’re at Love Field Airport. It’s so modern, windows four stories high

the cavernous expanse resounds like the inside of a drum,

It feels white

so much light,

too much light.

You stride towards me, grab my hand,

and pull me up from the turquoise chair.

“It’s time to board the plane,” you declare.

“I didn’t hear an announcement,” I squint.

It’s not that kind of plane.

You’re robed in rainbow-colored feathers;

limb-length, pink plumes bob

and sway from your headdress.

Summery warmth bathes the daylight.

“Drink this and grow small,” you quip.

You hand me a vial straight from Frankenstein’s lab.

The fruity concoction goes down like a candy cordial,

masking medicine.


Samba crack, crack, cracks an orange horizon.

Drums pound from the ground up, from the roots of trees

and into our feet. It pours up through our legs and into our

hearts and streams out our hands and heads back into the sky

like a flow of benevolent lightning.

Golden curls twine around our bodies, and

hovering above the surface of your face, a saffron aura dolls

your features. Your eyes twinkle with emerald glitter, and you

gush heavenward, ecstatic.

It’s too much; I can and can’t see this leap.

Suddenly, everything goes white. I can feel you

across from me: soft, safe, stable.

“I’m me and not me here,” you explain.

“It’s part of the mystery. Step into it.”

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