November Four Seven Bravo Alpha

Apr 12

Written By Donna Kathryn Kelly

Image of artist Franklin Booth’s pen and ink drawing, THE SAHARA, courtesy Smithsonian Open Access.

Two years before each of us

became an eyewitness to events

we could not foresee-

could not-

still cannot-

will never-

fully fathom,

there was another

unsettling blue sky,

another distance,

another autumnal flight of fate

to which we were riveted,

anchored by our united

powerlessness,

reminded of the subordinate

nature of our selves,

taught by the plane’s

unnavigated path

that just as clouds morph

and disappear:

So, go we.

The scope of our authority

is limited,

extremely, constantly;

and it rides on circumstances,

such as the sudden

loss of cabin pressure

at a high altitude.

See, our breaths

can be stolen

in a matter of seconds.

See, even we can drown

thousands of feet

above the oceans.

Golf is a game where the

slightest makes the difference:

the tweak of the lower back,

the placement of the thumb,

the spread of the feet

at a not-so-superstitious distance,

the clarity of image

of the end of an airborne flight.

The swing is more about grace,

than power.

Our hour is unknown to us

and it may come

after a time of redemption-

or not-

but this is common to all of us:

its arrival is never convenient.

We structure the entirety

of our days around numbers -

on the top right-hand corner

of a work computer,

or on the over-populated face

of a cell phone,

or on a VCR, or a microwave -

digits marking our arrival

or departure from a school,

our arrival or departure

from a workplace,

the arrival of

a certified nursing assistant

to wheel us

to the bathroom or to bingo.

In truth, it is time

that regulates us,

and our most important meeting

is unscheduled.

Four months before the Learjet

descended into the ground

at a hundred times the force of gravity

two miles southwest of Mina,

scarring the field with a

ten-foot deep crater,

Payne Stewart studied a slope,

calculated distance,

force,

grade.

It was an uphill putt,

and when he landed it

softly into the cup,

there was the celebratory

lunging of the body,

the throwing, sans javelin,

of fist to air,

the iconic mule-kick

of the right leg.

He stood,

in the drizzle,

his forearms bare,

calves-covered

to plus-fours’ edge

with white socks,

answering questions

into a microphone,

with a serene distraction,

that seemed like subdued joy,

and he said,

“Phil’s going to have

his opportunities again,

mine might be on the short list.”

At first,

when news of the

northwest-bound plane

was broadcast,

the occupants’ names

were not disclosed.

We were told that a Learjet

had taken off from Orlando,

that it was supposed

to be headed to Texas,

that its crew

was unresponsive

shortly after takeoff,

and that it was cruising

on autopilot,

a ghost plane,

over the heartland.

There was a professional

golfer onboard.

This news was as mysterious,

as it was horrific,

and then,

when his identity was reported,

it was inconceivable.

The flight time was

three hours and fifty-four minutes.

The jet cut across

Mississippi and Tennessee,

passed over Payne Stewart’s

birth state of Missouri,

pitched high above Iowa,

and spiraled downward

into a field in Edmunds County,

underneath a sheet of reeling

South Dakota sky.

See, we cannot think

of everything.

See, we do not even know

where our final resting place will be.

November Four Seven Bravo Alpha first appeared in the Spring 2020 Edition of Pasque Petals.

The poem was the Third Place entry in the 2020 South Dakota State Poetry Society’s Annual Poetry Contest (Landscape Category).

Donna Kathryn Kelly