The Pythia Barbara
Ninety-six in the shade,
Joni Mitchell sings on the radio
I was a free man in Paris
as she loads her sacks into the car,
kiwi fruit, baby spinach, sourdough
bread, prosciutto, pomegranate—
their restaurant bill is getting
entirely out-of-hand—when the radio
shifts to Hartsfield International,
crash of a flight out of Charleston.
Or maybe Joni was singing Amelia,
it was just a false alarm.
In front of the windshield
yellow butterflies burst into flame.
Why bother to fly to Atlanta
anyway, the drive is so short—
if far more deadly. Oranges
from Mexico scorch her fingers,
rolling from hand to bowl.
The refrigerator crackles and sparks.
The souls of the passengers rise
to heaven on ink-black smoke.
The dishwater smells of burning wire.
Their ashes fall into the sacred
Chattahoochee River.
Charon meets them at the peak
of adrenalin, is how the poem
will come to be written.
She inhales steam of chicken
simmering with celery, leek,
and thyme. Friendly Charon
is texting for help, and the crew
feels safe now as he ties
his boat at the river’s edge,
extends his hand.
Ninety-six in the shade,
Joni Mitchell sings on the radio
I was a free man in Paris
as she loads her sacks into the car,
kiwi fruit, baby spinach, sourdough
bread, prosciutto, pomegranate—
their restaurant bill is getting
entirely out-of-hand—when the radio
shifts to Hartsfield International,
crash of a flight out of Charleston.
Or maybe Joni was singing Amelia,
it was just a false alarm.
In front of the windshield
yellow butterflies burst into flame.
Why bother to fly to Atlanta
anyway, the drive is so short—
if far more deadly. Oranges
from Mexico scorch her fingers,
rolling from hand to bowl.
The refrigerator crackles and sparks.
The souls of the passengers rise
to heaven on ink-black smoke.
The dishwater smells of burning wire.
Their ashes fall into the sacred
Chattahoochee River.
Charon meets them at the peak
of adrenalin, is how the poem
will come to be written.
She inhales steam of chicken
simmering with celery, leek,
and thyme. Friendly Charon
is texting for help, and the crew
feels safe now as he ties
his boat at the river’s edge,
extends his hand.