Janine Joseph -Third Place PoemHistory At the end of the cabin, the stewardess was emptying the dinner cart; four broiled chicken trays stacked like old stories in her arms. From the aisle, I watched my father play Connect Four by himself, arrange the red and black dots into five quarters, four dimes, three nickels for both of my brothers and me. Jan, airsick, was asleep against the window, dreaming of nothing that I knew at eight. My mother was in the lavatory, rubbing his vomit from her hands with a towelette that smelled of mandarin oranges. The Bermuda Triangle, I am sure, is right below us, so I unbuckle my lap belt, cross into the next wave of seats where Johann is sliding his window shade up. We search for the Amelia Earhart from our mother's lessons, the Amelia Earhart with a headlamp on in this sixteen-hour dark. He tells me the ocean is a hole, and I can't tell him we're telling the wrong stories of ghosts disappearing in the wrong planes. It's only Hawaii down there, the midnight coast of California, and only the stewardess will answer the call light we're pushing on and off and on, steady as seconds.
Summer- Fall 2006
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho