Rachel Flesch-Parishy

Helicopters

Marching out of the apartment
my sticky eyelashes blur the night
And for the first time I don’t want you to

follow me in your car because
even though I’m on edge
the reverberating sound of Black Sabbath
drowns
the familiar sound
of your failing brakes

We pass a shotgun house: peeling turquoise
a lawn littered with a sinking couch
a dirty relic of a child’s rocking horse
a kaleidoscopic collection
of beads and a mallard shaped lamp
no shade
to interfere with its glow
that pierces the night

Out of the car we walk
through colorless grass
aware of the cool October stillness
I’ve been waiting for

Over rusted train tracks
you grab my hand and we race
up the levee
and stop
hit in the face with the Mississippi

Lean back and take short steps down the concrete slabs

We lay on our backs on the bank
Sand like cold powdered sugar
The waves from the tugboat arrive surprisingly late
I sink back into your body listening to the industrial hum
wanting to be the helicopter imitating a shooting star
rushing in
and weaving out
of the New Orleans skyline