Attempting the Equator: Amelia Earhart, 1937<\/p>\n
\u2026 for it was her voice that made<\/em> <\/p>\n Whenever the cameras wanted her to kiss her husband goodbye in her cheek, the gap between her teeth — he told her: Smile<\/em> your tousled locks.<\/em> So it came to this\u2014nothing to do but tie the camera clicking questions, You can never miss<\/em> was her domesticity\u2014a zigzag stitch ocean\u2019s obscurity to another. In the cockpit, bottles of water, From Los Angeles, her stomach in a knot six days. On the phone \u201cpersonnel difficulties\u201d<\/em>\u2014her radio expert gone, yes, for the navigator\u2019s whiskey jag. Quit now, come home<\/em> hard to hear you,<\/em> he says, I\u2019m losing you\u2014<\/em> the Pacific\u2019s sheen to Howland Island\u2014the needle could the Lockheed\u2019s berth, emptied for tanks of gas, emptiness Her bony wrist bare, even the bracelet forgotten, Howland, strip of sand less than two miles wide, thin mouth how?<\/em> Clear morning, her face hot, eyes burning it seemed, from the world\u2014no husband, no agent, no line of roses, intoxication of fame. Just Earth\u2019s endless, indifferent to fall, then finding solid air. Gasoline evaporating of whiskey from the navigator\u2019s mouth, the hush You can never miss an island. Her voice breathless hear you. Repeat. Cannot hear \u2026<\/em> her voice falling away then, a moment of pure seduction in the drone of fear\u2014 into the darkest cloud bank, hears nothing and emerges sunblind and exhausted, into neither the island herself, into the last silver glint of possibility.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Shannon Borg <\/a>is a poet and wine educator living on Orcas Island. Her publications include Corset<\/em> <\/a>(poems, Cherry Grove, 2006); Chefs on the Farm<\/a><\/em> (a cookbook, Mountaineers, 2008), and poems in The Paris Review, London Review of Books,<\/em>\u00a0Poetry Northwest,<\/em> <\/a>and other journals. Shannon holds an MFA from the University of Washington, and a PhD from the University of Houston. Her most recent project is called 26 Kitchens: How Neither Here Nor There Became Home,<\/em> a collection of essays chronicling every kitchen she’s lived in. It is currently posted on her blog 26Kitchens. \u00a0<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Attempting the Equator: Amelia Earhart, 1937 \u2026 for it was her voice that made the sky acutest at its vanishing. \u2014Wallace Stevens Whenever the cameras wanted her to kiss her husband goodbye she shook his hand. Newsreel never showed … Continue reading
\n the sky acutest at its vanishing.<\/em>
\n\u2014Wallace Stevens<\/p>\n
\nshe shook his hand. Newsreel never showed the crimson<\/p>\n
\n with your mouth closed, dear. And no hats! We want to see<\/em><\/p>\n
\na smoky rope around the world. This is the last flight,<\/p>\n
\n an island,<\/em> she says, tooth-gap smiling its emptiness. This<\/p>\n
\nconnecting hemispheres, above the abyss of Africa, from one<\/p>\n
\ntomato juice, airsick pills, sandwiches she couldn\u2019t eat.<\/p>\n
\nfrom Honolulu to her husband\u2014I\u2019m experiencing<\/em><\/p>\n
\nbut this was different, this was code<\/p>\n
\nAmelia<\/em>\u2014the line breaking up\u2014I\u2019m finding it<\/em><\/p>\n
\nAnd still to come, the hardest stitch\u2014across<\/p>\n
\nlose north, cloud\u2019s blue fabric slip apart. This is home\u2014<\/p>\n
\nmeant for the parachute and life raft she left behind.<\/p>\n
\nelephant hair for luck. But her faith immense as the godless sky\u2014<\/p>\n
\nmouth on the sea\u2019s vast face, wouldn\u2019t it open for her,<\/p>\n
\nthe horizon with looking, the sun\u2019s thin resting place. Everyone gone,<\/p>\n
\nof cars crawling under ticker-tape snow, no heady scent<\/p>\n
\ncurve. And this place, this plane: floating, rising, seeming<\/p>\n
\nlike a spirit somewhere deep in the motor\u2019s hum, and the scent<\/p>\n
\nas he breathes cigarette after cigarette into ash.<\/p>\n
\ninto the speaker\u2014I\u2019m flying the line, can no longer<\/em><\/p>\n
\nlike a chute opening over the sea\u2014slow, circling down<\/em>\u2014<\/p>\n
\nengines quiet now\u2014she points the nose and wings straight<\/p>\n
\nof the radio\u2019s crackling code, needle no longer stitching but spinning\u2014<\/p>\n
\nheaven nor hell, but slips between, into the needle eye,<\/p>\n