In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

17 first flight Eyes closed you rise over frozen American Falls, the cold motel, the Quik Stop’s fridge full of sandwiches and small bottles of livestock vaccines, the mortuary’s neon rose— When you look below, it’s all white ice, the reservoir marbled and swirled like burlwood, where air, or land, is trapped— no sound but the pure noise of the engine, the gas needle broken, shuddering at the bottom of the gauge. A flock of white birds turns all at once against gray sky, and their shadows turn on ice. The Idaho plain breaks into hills, then mountains pushed up from beneath, swollen to bursting— trees black against snow. When the plane begins to pitch, you understand only half of turbulence, imagine each patch of trees a black hole, the thinner air easier to fall through, as though darkness could exert a pull, become a swirling pool that wants you in it. But each time after this, it’s the updraft from the black that lifts you up, arms crossed, fingers clutching your ribs, the plane a bird riding a thermal— and the empty snow you cross back over that jolts you weightless, into freefall. ...

Share