I cry. I cry when I realize I’ve left 
behind a small gift from a friend, 

each lesser loss now a great piercing. I cry 
as I order sunflowers for my sister. 

Nearby in the terminal another woman 
weeps, her own mother disappearing 

into the security line abyss, returning 
to the old country, to a home far from here, 

each tearing an agony. I flee 
to the restroom, wash my face, swallow hard, 

gather myself before boarding begins. 
On the plane, flanked by families, 

their babies take up crying, inconsolable. 
The smallest, an infant, is a purist. Her wailing 

a three-hour raw lamentation, all vowel 
and howl, eternal. The older baby knows No! 

and screams it—repeating crescendos 
of No Nooo Nooooooooo. We hurtle 

through the heavens, tethered 
and untethered, outside civilization, 

unthinking, animals keening 
through this longest night. 

Robin Turner’s

poems, prose poems, and flash fiction have most recently appeared in Rattle, The Texas Observer, Rust + Moth, and Bracken Magazine, as well as in Haunted, a Porkbelly Press anthology. She lives in North Texas where she works with teen writers online and serves on the editorial staff for Sugared Water.