The adults are crying
in the airport, so I cry too.
There’s a movement to life that birds
can’t shake. They leave for better
weather, for survival,
but they return.
Ask them to stay for twenty-two years,
and they wouldn’t consider it.
Twenty-two years ago, I stepped
onto an airplane and my tears stopped,
as if I’d been tired of the ground
and flying was the only remedy.
A seven-year-old does not know
why she cries, only that others are crying,
and she should join them.
Read more from Issue No. 20 or share on Facebook and Twitter.