Sleepwalking
It is beginning to feel as though I have always lived in this airport. I wake to the custodial staff unloading the trash cans and fall asleep to the kind hum of vending machines that stay lit through the night like Norwegian suns. I try to be good. I greet strangers at each terminal, ask how are you, refuse the plastic bags. I watch the news on mute at the bar. Today the soldiers have made a half moon around the flag. No man is taller than a spoon. As the clouds close in, they raise their weapons. They point their tiny guns at the darkening sky. As a child, I used to build miniature ecologies in the inner compartment of my school desk. Back then, I was more innovative with my materials. Tiny trees, tiny soldiers, tiny wives. To make things small, you have to fold them as many times as you can. Yes, there are still things to be thankful for. It’s good that the heat stays on in the winter, that the cashier at Hudson Booksellers lets me borrow magazines for free, that we are in this airport, where the windows are so large it’s almost like being outside.
Rhea Ramakrishnan is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. She currently lives in Albuquerque where she is pursuing an MFA at the University of New Mexico. Her poems have appeared in Maudlin House, the Mochila Review, and Manzano Mountain Review.
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