Whenever I fly from New York to Kansas or Cyprus, I know the planes will rise, large chunks of metal will move into the air, first on the ground, then in the sky. Placing my hand to the right of the doorway near threaded bolts reminds me that this is a created structure, heavy, metallic, with pieces held together by materials found in ordinary places—upholstered seats dyed in blue swirls or red-orange stripes, flat carpeting, lighting, plastic bins above the seats— I leave a trace of DNA on the outside of the plane as I step off the metal stair or covered walkway. My palm print under the logo makes me feel safe, as if I’m outside of the plane flying over the Atlantic or the Great Plains, the farms and cities, cattle, an ocean. I become part of atmosphere for an instant when my right hand touches arced cold before I greet the flight attendants, smile, and make the turn to find my seat.

Anne Graue (she/her), the author of Full and Plum-Colored Velvet (Woodley Press) and Fig Tree in Winter (Dancing Girl Press), has work in Poet Lore, Verse Daily, Spoon River Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Canary, EcoTheo Review, River Heron Review, and elsewhere. She is a poetry editor for The Westchester Review.