The Early Days of Aviation 

St. Exupery stayed in the hotel between flights 
for the postal service. Then, they navigated by landmarks—
a farmhouse, a body of water—and, 
when those were made invisible, a compass, 
and flashlight. No wonder he imagined 
a prince on a tiny planet
as he hurled himself against the constellations.
The world was a dark scroll unrolling beneath 
and the plane could become a vehicle you’d use 
the way a gnat uses its wings, with a three-dimensional 
fluidity and the world might feel to you 
the way water must feel to a dolphin. 
It was too cold in that hotel, wind 
snaked through the cracked-framed windows 
and faded drapes. I was easily distracted—too cold 
for too long. I could tell you this was the year that I too 
flew through a darkness, but at the time
I only felt ugly, inarticulate. I’d take a hot bath 
every other night for 5 extra francs. So hot 
I barely breathed for a half-hour 
after emerging, my heart still beating hard and fast. 
I’d go directly to bed and sleep 10 hours. Too cold 

and I wanted the day to pass so I could 
start over. In the papers, an 80 year old 
named Papon was being tried as a collaborator 
for the Nazis. During the trial, 
his frail wife died, a result of stress. Papon explained
that he took the papers handed to him by Germans, 
signed them, and sent the papers on. This is what
kept him alive, he said, signing these papers
which sent hundreds of French Jews to the gas chambers. 
The young Papon was dapper in the wartime 
photos, his wife well-shod and I wondered at how 
what doesn’t happen at its neglected moment 
flares up, virulent, more so from regret. 
How we are all accountable and how it never stops. 
Sometimes, I eavesdropped on the nasal 

American couple next door—animated in the hallway, 
a key in a lock, and I held my breath. Him, with his athletic 
stomach and sideburns talking much and more 
than she. They wore the banal uniform of American travelers, 
as if they might be forced to tear through a jungle 
or conquer a mountain, but nighttime
she wore a rich leather jacket with scalloped details 
on the pockets and cuffs. Lying in my creaking, 
deep-slung bed, lonely, I imagined speaking 
before them. We’d make plans and their casual natures 
were very attractive, made me feel at ease. I imagined 
sitting at dinner with them—why? In my vision 
I was flushed, internal, explaining what it is 
to be a writer. That one is constantly revealing oneself. 
That, as a result, a writer always needs love
but never can remember being loved enough. I’d wrestle 

the pillows and debate turning on the light 
to read my textbook about French cathedrals, muttering, 
what do I think they can give me? 
I would sometimes try to imagine what it would be 
to play in the sky. 

The medieval builders  of cathedrals abandoned 
barbaric forms, wrote M. Guy Duby—the vegetal motifs,
the repetition of abstract designs. They moved towards 
grander, more elaborate forms 
of worship—gold and splendor, biblical
tales reproduced in whole, hundreds
of angels carved in stone as if making it look
human could dissolve the terror
of mystery. I wondered at barbarism—the combination
of the real, minor vine and leaf with the fathomless, 
solid expression of a circle inside a square. 
I looked around my hotel room at the strewn 
clothing, the chipped sink that leaned from the wall, the crack

in the plaster that looked like a man leaping 
over the dresser. I understood that the only thing I wanted 
from this world was that it need me. And it 
did not—a woman waiting in her bed 
because there was nowhere she would go. And weren’t those 
the fearless, early days of aviation—a plane, 
the tiny arrow shooting towards an oblivion of sky, wind, 
the spree of flight, the eventual
crumpled metal in a farmer’s field?

           -from Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream

That Far North

I invented my own sign language.
I wrote it down with elaborate descriptions
of the positions of my hands and
where I touched, how I moved them.
The path through the woods behind home
was double-rutted from an old tractor,
abandoned, and I walked in its grooves.
I took out books on flowers,

identified the unbeautiful few that could grow
that far north: mustard, hawk's-eye,
ragwort, and I invented and recorded
for each a silent sign. I found a book
on eating them and began to eat
bark off trees, lick the sap that beaded
on their cuts and buds. I dug up thistles
and ate the roots while my mother,

without my help, cleaned the house
like a woman possessed. I don't care
how poor you are, she said, you can 
at least be clean. The tiny leaves
all around me at the bald top of the hill,
furrowed down to our house.
From up there, I watched the mill lose
its black crown of sparks, and my mother,

big as my thumb at the clothesline,
fought sheets from the wind.
I knew they weren't clean,
she would always work hard,
and each year, the mill rolled enough paper
so it could go, but didn't, to the moon
and back. One of the odd songbirds
half-finished its song. The guide said

these leaves are hardy, adore full sun and
well-drained soil. I picked ten,
rubbed them clean on my pants,
and ate them. Sour. Bright. The sun
slid behind the mill and mouth dry,
I practiced signs to my mother's
small figure, as she began
to mow our acre of lawn.