Two thousand feet.
The fat orange belly of the sun setting into the waist of the mountain.
Warning horn blaring. The engine stopped.
You have engine failure, Instructor said.
How do you get us back on ground?
Heart climbed into my throat.
Hands and feet already answering.
Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.
---
I thought I should tell her myself.
Mama, I love her —
she cried. Then screamed:
I want to die.
Heart squeezed into a chicken egg.
Then sank, floor by floor,
and checked itself into my knees.
---
My father did not ask.
He said: You will study architecture.
You will take over from me.
I nodded.
Next six years of tracing vellum, blueline paper,
and infected wood splinter wounds.
---
Our eyes met across the room.
I knew she loved me
before she said a word.
We were mid-sentence about something else
when the sentence stopped mattering.
My heart did something
embarrassingly K-pop
and probably our pupils gave it away.
---
The body knew before I could brain it.
Upper lip stiff.
Carry on.