Plane Crash

No one screamed when the oxygen
masks dropped. We inhaled and reached
for the yellow life vests beneath our seats. 

The passengers near the emergency 
exits cranked the red handles open, 
without error, and we single-filed out 
onto the wings that now bobbed.

We stretched our legs like sleepy cats
and some decided that yes, they did 
want to go for a dip—so we dunked 
into the clear body of water and sky.  

No one bothered with overhead luggage
or said the word crash or worried 
about car rentals, resort reservations, etc. 

In the spirit of sun and leisure 
we held hands in the sea to form pamphlet-
perfect orbits—and we pointed our legs 
in likeness of cranes and flamingos. 

The captain then hollered bingo
and cannonballed into the center
of our bullseye and splashed big-time. 

The children clapped and cheered,
and the adults voted ten-out-of-ten 
on his form like a pool party jury. 

The flight attendants brought out all
the orange juice and apple juice 
and sprite, etc.—ice cold and free, 
and we toasted to new friendships. 

No one feared the refracted pillars
of silence beneath our kicking feet. 

The infants under sixteen kilograms
floated like chosen offerings in an ocean
that could once again be trusted. 

None of us cared, as it turned out,
about the plane (the only victim),
and we all forgot our destinations.

As though we’d each been waiting
since the moment we tilted skyward
for the sudden relief of a nosedive.

Jérémi Doucet

Jérémi Doucet is an emerging fiction writer and poet. His writing has appeared in CV2, Gone Lawn, and several anthologies. He currently lives in Vancouver.