Flight Pattern Pattern

    by Nadine Lockhart


When I board a plane, I enter a pre-flight OCD ritual: 
obtain window seat, maintain muscle tension, begin 
shallow breathing, ears and eyes on “hyper-vigilant,” 
observe worried exchanges between airline personnel. 
I clutch my decades-old book of spiritual discourses, 
familiar hard cover, tan cloth, read once. I knew 
I should have cancelled. The engine sounds 
way too loud on take-off, the wings “move funny”
like a broken bird, we’re banking at a steeper angle 
than I can ever remember. Death in the air. 
I meditate on a mantra, the thin metal tube of claustro-
phobia straightens and continues its flight path, 
deflowering clouds along the way.
	
An elevator-like bell sounds, the seat belt sign goes off, 
the Captain speaks: I’m afraid of what he will say 
through the intercom, through the stale warm air, 
over to me, the only one who knows there is no 
convincing argument for the mechanics of air travel. 
He’ll whisper how he has aspirations of plummeting 
this baby . . . how he hears voices that never stop      
quoting Jelalludin Rumi. He’s flying to Iran, a woman
he met maybe twice is waiting, arranging their marriage.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, he tells me to order 
a Bloody Mary, or two—it’s on him. The conversation 
turns to sex. I am the uncooked chickpea.