Gunshot, Peacock, Dog

The Crying Baby Flight



We are landing in the night

and the lights make our town a city,

the way one light in the dark

seems like home, seems safe.

The babies were brown and cried

loud in the native tongue of babies,

not the one their father used when he said

what no doubt meant be quiet little one

or shut the fuck up (and who among us

would know, though many of us were

thinking it). Then the baby said

I have to pee pee. I have to pee pee.

And we wanted to say Jesus man,

let the kid pee, but we were landing

and none of us could move and I

imagined a river of pee moving under

my seat, soaking my computer bag,

gliding toward the pilot’s locked door.

Threat code yellow. Threat code warm.

I raised my feet; the baby was quiet,

his father too.