What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless

tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning

slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low

growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to

land, to devour the space between its

falling body and the ground, followed by

the slow lick of its wheels against the runway's

belly: pressing down, then skating forward,

only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,

and the plane makes a sound

like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seatbelt sign blinks off for the final time.

We rise up from our seats like souls

from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage

in the overhead compartments, then

begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly

smiling at each other, remaining few minutes

alive with all kinds of ambivalences,

or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,

in that no-time zone of a country

without a name except the ones we give it;

weeping, laughing, both at once.