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THE OLDEST DAUGHTER FLIES TO DUBLIN............................................................................ELLEN STONE
The Oldest Daughter Flies to Dublin
Poem by Ellen Stone
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Over northern Canada she may feel most alone, although it is the longest day of the year
and the sun (diffuse or beacon-like, depending) will follow her over those low-slung mountains
that go on and on reminding her how big the world is—boreal forest of larch, spruce, birch spreading
into bogs, fens, black marshy sponge reflecting sky— pinprick of silver plane, no more than a sliver, really
like the germ of an idea. She will look out the plane window & think of who lives down there, what girl,
like her, is not sure, but goes on through her days anyway—maybe surrounded by trees like woodland
caribou, shy & sturdy—who everyone will likely one day depend upon. But for now, the other self,
the one her body houses now, full of this nebulous wonder. I hope she feels like cloud then, weightless,
unformed, with what she sees below—that spread of nubby canopy—at once, both factual & dreamlike.
While she, full at the same time, of doubt & precision, a shaft of thin sharp air, knifes her way through.
