Trust Issues 

“Crash”By Elizabeth Alexander

I am the last woman off of the plane 

that has crashed in a cornfield near Philly, 
picking through hot metal 

for my rucksack and diaper bag. 
No black box, no fuselage, 

just sistergirl pilot wiping soot from her eyes, 
happy to be alive. Her dreadlocks 

will hold the smoke for weeks. 
All the white passengers bailed out 

before impact, so certain a sister 
couldn’t navigate the crash. O gender. 

O race. O ye of little faith. 
Here we are in the cornfield, bruised and dirty but alive. 

I invite sistergirl pilot home for dinner 
at my parents’, for my mother’s roast chicken 

with gravy and rice, to celebrate.

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