wedged together we are flying | Reva Elise Johnson
There was someone on a plane when men
voted to let women vote. The spinning top
wants to twirl and fall, to lay its body down.
The spinning top is a tailbone
stuck upright, wrapped in broad swaths
of gluteus, squashed into the middle seat
of an airplane row that my favorite 9-year-old
would say smells exactly like a freezer full
of farts. We are wedged together; we are
flying. There was someone on a plane
when the divorce decree was stamped
and sealed. A muffled roaring, just a
white noise that swaddles me. The angles
of my joints are locking into place but
the neatest little protractors will measure
oscillation when I begin again to swing
through space. We are wedged together;
we are flying. There was someone on a plane
when the doctor pulled the twins
into this world. A metal seat frame shapes
my skeleton while the window shows me
glowing lights of unknown cities that perhaps
will be my home someday. We are wedged
together; we are flying. There was someone
on a plane when I realized I cannot reach
the beginning anymore, can no longer touch
my first impression, so wildly different
from how I see you now.
About the Author:
Reva Elise Johnson lives in northwestern Indiana, where the edges of Chicago meet the steel mills, Lake Michigan, and the Indiana Dunes. She is a writer and an engineer, exploring the interfaces between humans, nature, and technology through both her poetry and her research on prosthetics and assistive technology. Reva’s work integrates storytelling with engineering, appearing in publications ranging from Frontiers in Neuroscience to Moss Puppy Magazine. She teaches at Valparaiso University and serves as editor for the Assistive Technology journal.