Flight
by Mark Melnicove
We passed around poems
we had brought to our monthly
critique in my cousin’s
cellar apartment.
The more I read
the more disconnected
I felt from the fantasies
inside me, with all
those other lines
about improvised explosive
devices, strip searches,
and depletion of self.
Then that word —
peace — appeared
in the margin
of a rough draft
by an out-of-town
poet. He’d been sleeping
on my cousin’s couch
but was moving on
in the morning.
Peace — something about it
was awfully appealing —
but he had to catch a plane.