Horizon Management 2089

Julian Robles

Through the plane’s skull-
sized window I saw fires dot
              Oil field,             

                                                   carpet bomb

The poor burning garbage, the captain announces. Nothing, apocalyptic.

                        They found her skull behind the dumpster
                        body half-burned in a Mickey Mouse blanket.

Hands missing—invisible,
I mean      no more clocks to set back.
Everything      but the face raptured.

                 Another summer jet-set.

I land in Mexico City,
                   the latest re-pronounced New York,
peel back the window shade
like anything but a scalp,

mistake sun-set for sun-rise.

                          I saw newborns flung from hospital windows,
                          my mother whispered inside our hotel suite.

A trick of light. Any minute
now     it begins: sun-rise,
-set,     for 6:30 p.m.
                                  your in-flight service
                         I almost wrote in-flight

I know people who pay extra to never be red-
eyed. I know people who have done every un-
scorched country in Western-somewhere.

Until I turned 21,
only my name had done any
border, twice,

              three times, any time a Mexican cousin
              needed to borrow hyphenated State.
              Three myselfs: in steady-state,

                Another summer jet-set.

I land in New York,

The factory is a bar
the hospital is a mall now.
                          Every window body-

              This trick re-frames the sky,
               thus exonerating the window.

Like the one where the guy lifts
a blanket and makes a building

My mother did him better.

Let me show you how to forget the worst things you’ll ever see.
She takes a blade to the window.

Like this:
Hand-steady, the knife blunts the glass,
Hollows the skull
                              Trims the horizon.