Madelaine Norman

As my parents become sun and stars, never seen together, I invent places far enough away to forget words that slice through plaster like meat cleavers. Now, I wish on airplanes not stars because stars have begun to rust, shackled into night's blanket, trapped, like me. Stars can't take me away from the swallowing silence that is my lullaby after bedtime brawls, or the smoked-out feeling in my chest every time I realize that sometimes, families don't mold. Recently, I've taken to dreaming about the bounce of turbulence, the discomfort of shared air, and the ping of freedom when the seatbelt light turns on.

g

e .t,.

by Madelaine Norman