Nancy M. Fisher
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Flying Blind
Consider flying blind, under the hood.
Radar and radio become our guide
and in the cockpit, all the instruments should
agree, the ILS a needle wide.
How better to negotiate the rain
or find an altitude bereft of ice.
The charts for VFR depict terrain
but IFR approaches are precise.
Our ears deceive us with their tiny lies
Disorienting all within our cube.
Trust the altimeter, beware internal ice
in the carburetor or the pitot tube.
Lest we should fear or fabricate our fall,
let us fly sightless faith, as blind as Paul.
OVER THE ALPS
On the plane from Athens to London
we gaped at the Alps and talked:
“And you were born in Delphi?”
where yesterday I had walked.
The hills are ragged at Delphi
like the hills of Tennessee.
“I’ve always dreamed of England
where everyone is free.”
On the plane from Athens to London
our conversation was brief,
but stealing home from Delphi
I hoard her home like a thief.
Checkers
On Sundays we went to Sunday School at Hampton;
The preacher stayed for church come second
Sunday;
I remember we used to sing “Stars in my Crown.”
But weekdays they’d play at Ben Brown’s service
station,
Two men at the board, the rest an admiring
circle,
Summers in heat, winters around the stove.
I’d watch with uncomprehending fascination--
So still, not a sound, sometimes for thirty
minutes.
All men are equal at the checkerboard.
As an adult, I’ve learned chess, with its knights who
hover,
And bishops who glide diagonal, and castled
kings.
The games more subtle, like situational ethics.
Dad always scoffed at chess, saying how kings
Should come from the ranks of men and strategy.
I imagine him looking over my shoulder even now.
When my king is trapped by the queen, or a castle threatened,
I remember those simple times at Ben Brown’s
station,
And how Christ reduced the ten commandments to
two.
First published in Roane State Community College’s literary
magazine.