The Swell
Sitting in an indigo
faux leather chair,
I am thirty thousand feet
up in the air.
And it is too dark
to read a magazine,
and I am too
careful with how
I am perceived
to press the dolphin
grey bulb hanging
over me. Siloed
in my insecurity,
my heart is
pacing, racing
through seas of sky.
Staring out the porthole
on the starboard side
of this small plane,
I see the spark
of every soul
stipple the flat land
west of the Mississippi.
With mottled strokes,
each trim and slick
their oil wicks to say:
this darkness now
is not our home,
one flame is dim,
but not alone.
And from this lofty
point of view,
a tapestry unveils
this buoyant coup—
against the swell
of swirling night.
We are anchored
by the light.
John McMeans is a transplant to the Texas Panhandle, where he lives with his wife and sons. He received a degree in Geography and works for Refugee Language Project (refugeelanguage.org). His writing has appeared in Amethyst Review, Texas Poetry Assignment and elsewhere. You can find him on social media @jsmcmeans.
Amethyst Review 