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I don’t usually pray
My father is still alive
when I switch off the phone
to board the plane.
My mother pleads
with him: hang on, wait,
just one more night.
I ask for a glass of wine.
I don’t usually drink.
Today I hope it dulls
the edge of grief,
lulls me to forget
where I travel.
Over the Atlantic,
I dissolve in weeping.
I don’t usually cry.
The flight attendant asks
if she can do anything.
Make the plane fly faster.
I keep checking the flight status.
I will search my sister’s face
when she picks me up.
I don’t usually pray.
Today I pray.
To be in time.
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About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines.
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More By Agnes Vojta:
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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Airplane over the Beach” (2021)
As It Ought To Be 