you are the aeroplane.

Because I’ll Never Swim in Every Ocean - Catherine Pierce

Want is ten thousand blue feathers falling
all around me, and me unable to stomach 
that I might catch five but never ten thousand. 
So I drop my hands to my sides and wait 
to be buried. I open a book and the words 
spring and taunt. Flashes—motel, lapidary, 
piranha—of every story, every poem I’ll never 
know well enough to conjure in sleep. 
What’s the point of words if I can’t
own them all? I toss book after book
into my imaginary trashcan fire. 
Or I think I’ll learn piano. At the first lesson, 
we’re clapping whole and half notes 
and this is childish, I’m better than this. 
I’d like to leave playing Ravel. I’d like
to give a concerto on Saturday. So I quit.
I have standards. Then on Saturday, 
I have a beer, watch a telethon. Or
we watch a documentary on Antarctica. 
The interviewees are from Belarus, Lima, Berlin. 
Everyone speaks English. Everyone names 
a philosopher, an ethos. One man carries a raft 
on his back at all times. I went to Nebraska once
and swore it was a great adventure. It was. 
I think of how I’ll never go to Antarctica, 
mainly because I don’t much want to. But 
I should want to. I should be the girl 
with a raft on her back. When I think 
of all the mountains and monuments 
and skyscapes I haven’t seen, all the trains 
I should take, all the camels and mopeds 
and ferries I should ride, all the scorching
hikes I should nearly die on, I press 
my body down, down into the vast green 
couch. If I step out the door, the infinity 
of what I’ve missed will zorro me across 
the face with a big L for Lazy. Sometimes 
I watch finches at the feeder, their wings small 
suns, and have to grab the sill to steady myself. 
Metaphorically, of course. I’m no loon. 
Look—even my awestruck is half-assed. 
But I’m so tired of the small steps—
the pentatonic scale, the frequent flyer
hoarding, the one exquisite sentence
in a forest of exquisite sentences. 
There is a globe welling up inside of me. 
Mountain ranges ridging my skin,
oceans filling my mouth. If I stay still
long enough, I could become my own world.

(Source: ahuntersheart, via babybirch)