The Hypochondriac Flies to Mexico

The plane is sick. Feverish chills 

shudder through its aluminum skin. 

The hatch hums closed, a stopper 

in a test tube of plague. En route to takeoff,

the pilot’s nasal drawl, “Thank you for flying 

Pandemic Air.” The plane is sick. It hobbles aloft,

the landing gear withdraws into the belly

like shocked testicles. Seated on the aisle, I squint 

down the length of the cabin: human convection plumes, 

germ haloes. The woman in the window seat 

makes three trips to the restroom in an hour – Adenovirus, 

Norwalk, dysentery? The plane is sick, 

its cargo contagion. My throat 

abraded by recycled air, the stuporous quiet 

by a child’s sobs and tubercular wheezes,

I want to say, with the time that is left, 

I always loved you, would have followed 

you anywhere. Squeeze my hand.

See how our words 

trail into coughs?