We All Have A Plane Crash

Is it the rainy picnic
the one that’s fun,
nonetheless,
until the potato salad
spills, it was his
favorite and it’s now
all over the drenched grass
in bits and fragments like
he was in a field faraway
in a plane crash or a car wreck
or a still unexplainable divorce?

What moment stops
you dead in your
dreams? Who has
your back or the
curve of your waist
or soft spot behind 
your ear when you
cry out, fists clenched
like packed soil
ready to punch,
knuckles wet with 
teeth marks? Who
soothes those
scarred fingers?

Who holds you
when the impact
is in your throat
like a raspberry
popsicle refusing
to melt even though
you are certain
you are with
fever?

What fear surprises you
like a car wash? Like
new tennis shoes
on shiny linoleum?
Freezes you, stops you
almost dejavu, but not?
What was that?

They say you may
have walked through
a ghost’s shadow.
That moment,
that shiver, that
shake in your
liver or fibula, a
sliver of familiar
that easily follows
the spiral of your
cochlea? And you
are dizzy with
unexplainable
dread.

We all have our plane crash.
That wretched wretched 
wretch. That memory
wrenched between
this minute
and the next. When
the heavy of
unreconcilable tears
beckon right below
your eyebrows,
your ugly crying
at the ready, so
you stay quiet
trying not
to  feel like
it is new
again.

We all have our 
plane crash. We
suffer a glimpse
of disbelief then
shake it off, shake
our head, shake
our hands until
our fingers
snap like a
bone or a marriage
or a toy wedged
between 32c
window seat
and 32b middle,
or a cigarette
between
couch cushions.

We all have our
plane crash, so
perhaps comfort
resides in that
we are not all
alone. 

What’s your
plane crash?