It was your vision of the pilot
confirmed my vision of you, you said.
He keeps on steering headlong into the waves,
on purpose while we crouched in the open hatchway
vomiting into plastic bags.
For three hours between St. Pierre and Miquelon,
I never felt closer to you.
In the close cabin where the honeymoon couples
huddled in each other's laps and arms.
I put my hand on your thigh
to comfort both of us.
Your hand came over mine,
we stayed that way,
suffering together in our bodies,
as if all suffering were physical,
we touched so in the presence of strangers
who knew nothing and cared less
vomiting their private pain
as if all suffering were physical.
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