You know how this ends.
The second engine fails.
A Franciscan monk at the window seat
in front of you brokers the young
flight attendant’s final confession.
She’s been unfaithful to her husband.
Third engine fails. The flight attendant
buries her face in the monk’s black habit.
You’re aware of absolution. The plane freefalls
and you flip open the cell phone. Don’t speed-dial–
press each number. Say goodbye to your girlfriend:
your envoy. She will miss you. Still dry palms
and you regret throwing away the apple
at security checkpoint. You’ll never have
its flesh crackle in your mouth, its resurrecting
aroma, pulp cowling your molars. Go ahead
and smoke, take that final isotopic drag.
Look out the window–the Cumberland splits
Nashville, nourishes all those trees.
November’s a long abscission.
Richard Boada recently earned a PhD. in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Mississippi. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Louisville Review, Yalobusha Review, Poetry East, Oyez Review, New Madrid and Rio Grande Review among others.