The Last Trip We Took

Falling out of an airplane is sometimes nice,
like going overboard on a ship: cold air hitting
you, like water filling your lungs, like the
frost-bitten pillow cases shoved over our heads.

I’m telling you this because I care.
Red is not the color of malice, but of
diced tomatoes: watery flesh which leaks
onto our countertop;
it’s the color of wine that stains the carpet
and of blood that stains the mind.

The air has a brick’s weight
muscling itself into the corners of this room.
(somehow I expected to go much differently)
Weeping, I do not see.
Sight replaced by smell:
horse muck, rust, and
a boxcar full of kerosene