If I had more time—
neither family nor job, neither
errands nor sense of duty—
I would visit every week,
light, free of all this weight
which presses me to the soil,
the way a low-flying plane
flattens a field of fragile wheat:
praise the interval between flights!

Make time, they say, as though it were
a currency—Bitcoin, the gold standard,
the almighty dollar—and I a central bank.
Each morning I mint new reasons to arise;
I grow tired of mining myself; what remains
is low-grade, a fever that discomfits
but does not kill. I want the leading edge
of death, the gem so sharp, it can slit
a wrist and make the blood sparkle.

Another plane flies overhead. Do the passengers
see me here, stitching myself to the ground?
From the air, these fields must appear as a quilt:
Do I belong amidst the canals and crops?
And are you up there, pondering the plague of heat
and doubt that threatens the harvest? I bow my head
before the blade that would let loose what I hold
within, but the blade does not come.

All is quiet, save a receding engine’s roar,
a plume of smoke, and my uneven, unsteady breath.
I want to live after all, or at least survive
the day’s threshing: to nourish that hunger which
compels one to go half-blind searching the skies
for the plane that will bring you back to me.

Image credit:prottoy hassan

Andy Posner grew up in Los Angeles and earned an MA in Environmental Studies at Brown. While there, he founded Capital Good Fund, a nonprofit that provides financial services to low-income families. When not working, he enjoys reading, writing, watching documentaries, and ranting about the state of the world. He has had his poetry published in several journals, including Burningword Literary Journal (which nominated his poem ‘The Machinery of the State’ for the Pushcart Poetry Prize), Noble/Gas Quarterly, and The Esthetic Apostle.