The Poetry Project


Clare McCormick

I am falling in on myself on this plane, too heavy for takeoff: its wings are leaden and iced-over, rubberized bits made tender and breakable by the cold. My side of the window has frost on it, and when I breathe heavy it pools to water, and I can watch it freeze again, returning itself to what it was before. This feels like dreaming.

Our bodies have no differences between them. When I shift my legs or rub my palms to warm them or press my temple to the curve of the plastic wall I can feel them all repeat it back, mirrored and chained and in reaction to me, to the weather, to the night that’s nearly come.

Everything in me is out of me, static between sky and scalp. My phone knocks three times in my pocket, the way we agreed on, and so I admit you. I can feel you, tugging, tugging.

Work from Consider the Omnivore: Consumption, Anxiety, Mess as Imagination with Jayson P. Smith