Earhart's Blackbox

Sam Landry

Seagulls fly out to dive.
In Indiana our birds can block out the sun
if you're standing right below one
as it takes a step up from the dirt –
little specks of earth and worm, bolts
wiggled off, bits of scrap from who-knows-what
pelt your scrunched up face,
leaving welts and the occasional gash.
I took one of these hawks for a spin
out past the waterfront. 
I stopped at a few nice places,
and passed by a couple more:
Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town, New Delhi,
Lae, the Nukumanu Islands.
They toss chum
for famous foreigners.

The Islands are long gone.
I took a conch shell with me,
grabbed it on the way by.
It is sitting in my bag,
but I can hear it in my headphones,
the only reception I get
is a small breeze
that blows my hair over my eyes
as I lay under an umbrella,
sipping on a glass of water
as I discuss aviation with a colleague.

The glass dissipates.
A giant 'E' sits in the dash.
Darling, enough with engineering,
the blueprints are for shit.
Behind us sits an incline
and out there?
Southern California,
Sydeny for the lost.

Nixes Mate Publications · PO Box 1179 · Allston, MA 02134