by Cornelia Rohde
She pilots a plane
with a blue fuselage, decoupaged
with wombats and kraken and scarlet macaws.
With side pockets packed
with rum and dark chocolate,
she lifts off with the tail of a comet,
trolling bright banners of verse.
The cabin is full of sloe-eyed gazelles,
who spout villanelles, and stay calm
when the weather turns worse.
Drunk from nosedives and corkscrews,
she tosses droll poems
from the cockpit, while
steering through cumulus towers
of thundery showers, catching
updrafts of odes.
She might never touch down,
but go on veering around,
chasing couplets of lemon and gold.