Value by Trudy Moser
Airships by Ian Hilton
Airships by Ian Hilton
My smile is the hydrogen in the Hindenburg;
explosive, but beautiful in a tragic way.
My laugh, the frantic flapping of Da Vinci’s failing airships.
This sense of worth that I’ve developed has been carefully folded,
crafted into an easy-to-deliver
product of repeated bouts of introversion.
I crease at the seams I find most desirable to show,
carefully prepared to take flight if you are.
My structure is strong, but lacks integrity
to bear the weight of what keeps raining down.
This cockpit is filling up with water.
These wings are heavy and beginning to sag.
I can see the power lines below us,
can smell the hydrogen engulfing the cabin from here.
I think I see an unidentified flying object,
but I’m losing altitude as you bail out.
Cancelled plans are the breached hull in my Columbia Disaster.
Losing touch is my Flight 932.
