Revolutionary Airport
When the hijackers said: To the Revolutionary Airport!
she misunderstood. A mondegreen of mind not mouth,
a predicament of youth; Martha had just turned 12 in June.
Plus they had guns. She had her spiral sketch book.
When the hijackers flashed steel-plated .38s,
an old lady in the aisle seat clutched her heart and moaned,
My pills my pills! Martha’s older sister, in the middle,
rummaged through the woman’s handbag.
Martha couldn’t comprehend
the customized jargon of blinkered myth,
where revolution means bible-story hailstorms
instead of redistribution of wealth.
The idea of a revolutionary airport made Martha think of Pegasus.
She pictured her favorite horse aloft among space stations.
In her book she drew storyboards of the jet age.
Its invisible walkways and green lights.
Saarinen’s curves of flights and tulips.
Instead of diverting the plane to the desert floor,
she dreamed from her window seat
the hijackers would return them to Athens International
where like her smudgy searchlights on pastel paper
human architecture would besmirch the sky with wonder.
Published in Ink & Ribbon Press, Desire Lines, September 2026