On Virgin flight 315 from SFO to Love Field, a girl
vomits into a sick bag. Contents of her stomach: everything

bagel, water, vodka, light beer, roll of film, lithium
batteries, aerosol canister, fireworks. A father

will soon collect her from baggage claim. Now,
she folds herself into the shape of a mockingbird

so she can mimic the songs of other girls,
yes, yes, yes. A quiet refrain. A little restraint

on the high notes. Her perch beside the wing
of the plane headed to another state, singing

in the aluminum cylinder that crosses sky
at nearly the speed of sound. She finds

she cannot see her feet anymore, buried beneath
so many feathers plucked from her skin. Only bumps

left on her arm. Goose: not a silly animal, rather
territorial. Not flighty, with its nest tucked

into the ground. Migratory, the girl swallows
her nausea, prepares for landing, unsure how to hide

when every inch of her was exposed
last night: hands on breast, panties left balled

in the corner of a dormitory shower. She touches
her back, the backs of her arms, flesh raised

and purple. Fuel—powerful stuff. Featherless,
a plane is propelled back home.