This poem is taken from Stand 222, 17(2) May - June 2019.

Jenny Johnson Poem
The Crash

             I am travelling to England with my son, Gawn:
            the aircraft sounds unstable – but as usual I relax
                                 into a near-sleep state
                          in which time no longer exists.

        Lightning happens: it pitches me into a whiteout of fear.
                 Turbulence forces us to fasten our seatbelts,
                            then bruisingly grounds us.
According to the pilot, we remain within the State of New York.

His plane taxies; almost collides with a convoy of trucks: I faint.

                               *                *                *

   I recover at my parents’: in their East of England kitchen,
                     Leighton is cooking a light meal.
     Looking out of the French window, I catch the aircraft
       attempting acrobatics to the west of the garden.
                        I am glad to be out of it.

   After the inevitable crash, I can sense only guilt
      at my abandonment of Gawn: I am drawn
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