THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

2023 Runner Up

Jet Blue

Nyati Misra ‘23

Takeoff

FromGate58to62, Iwatchedthebustleofrushedand swallowed footsteps.One,two.One, two.Theweddingisin42hours. HalfHindu.HalfMuslim.Big deal.

In free fall.

Momprays: Please Vishnu. Please Vishnu.

PraisebetoCancún. Theplanedidn’tgodown.

Themaninthewindowseat isalone.“Notanline”Mom says.Inoticed.OhVishnu,I noticed.Therearetwo hoodedoriolesflyingneartheplane. Fleetingandflicking.Halfquiet. Halfgone.Theenginetakes one.Liftingherinravenouswinds. Caressingthencutting.Sploshingher vermillionliketinytidepools.Her partnerscampers.

She’slucky.Hoodedorioles don’tmateforlife.Convenient.

Takedown

Iamweightless.Butweare ballistic.Amanandawoman sitacrossfrommyaisleseat. Shewearsaweddingring. He’sonherchest.Anauntie said“you’renext!”tome.Now, I’mmotionsick.Halfmassed. Theweddingisover.Halfmutiny. IwishIwasahoodedoriole.

Sabrinaisthecaptain. Allwomencrew

Women.Women.Women. Momboughtmea rainbow dolphin.Shedidn’tevenask. Didn’tponder. ItoldherthatifImarryat36,shewill be80.“Noissue,”shesays,“you’ll findyourotherhalf.”

Momwillneverask.

PleaseVishnu. Please Sabrina. Bringthisplanedown.

Organism

Natalie Garcia ‘23

I.DroopyVine

My little leafy, pink plant stands high and mighty as the sun replenishesher.

“Look at me, Mom! I’m a big kidnow!”

Her vines are straight and tall. She dances to the feeling of the sun’s heat.

But now, the summer rays are gone and limited. She wilts more and more as the sun sets closerto4:30pm. She droops, cries, and sings a dark song. An artificial light supports her. Even though she is a little less wilted with the fluorescent LED light, her leaves still curl. Nothing beats the magic of the warm rays of sunlight. The man in the sky who gleams through the window at night now replaces my plant’s best friend, Mrs. Shine.

II.TheFlock ��

Birds travel in unison as darkness prevails at approximately 5 pm. The beautiful black crows show off their sleek bodies, thrusting their large muscles and flapping their wings against the setting sky. Like little kindergarteners on the field during recess, the flock of birds turns into a clusterastheyturnfromNorthtoEast.

Today is the last 75-degree dayinNovember.

Are they scared for what is to come?

I, too, am scaredforwhatisto come.

The birds know the cold and the wind that will come tomorrow, fleeing from the inevitable. Avoidant like me, the birds kiss goodbye dark Byfield nights, and in a split second, thebirdsaregone.

III.Comparison

When it gets too dark, you migrate.

When it gets too dark, I turn onmylamp.

When you need to save your food,youdigitdeepintotheground.

When I need to save myfood, Iputitinmyfridge.

When it gets too cold, you growathickerfurcoat.

When it gets toocold,Iputon myjacket.

When you get bored, you roamthelandandswiminthepond.

When I get bored, I scroll on mytelephone.

IV.October31

I look out of the window as my teacher drones onandon,andIfall intotherhythmofthewindshakingthe trees. Defying gravity, they abruptly rattlefromlefttorightlikedissenting snakes who persist in living in the backyard, despite the numerous attemptstowarnthemby flauntingtheirdeadfriends.

I think about the people who lived before us, andhowtheycutthese precious trees to establish this town, this school, and this classroom. How pretty would this be without this industrialbuilding?

I think of howthebirdswould sing their fee-bee song on thetreetops, how the squirrels would dig with all their might with their little paws to hide their acorns, or how the bees would pollinate the fragile purple flower that may have lived if we had notbeenhere.

V.Fawn ��

The drive to the White Mountains from Northeastern Massachusetts is a brutal one. 2.5 hours, 150 minutes, 9000 seconds of highwaydriving.

The beams of the LED lights blind me. The trees are slate and bare, and the sadness of November prevails.

As my Mom and I get closer to Littleton, the highway becomes one line as the road winds through the valleyofthetwinmountains.

As we drive past the post-foliage leaves on the pavement, the sight of a lifeless deerwithitseyes wide open stares deep into me until it can find my soul. No blood,nobroken extremities,justablankstare.

“Whydidyoudothistome,”I imaginehewouldask.

We speed past the lifeless entity in our metal sphere, as if its existence was just a faint, minuscule, and irrelevant moment in the timeline ofEarth.

VI.ShrimpPateé ��

Mycatmeowsatmymother,a long, painful noise demanding his shrimppateé.Ithinkofthoselittlepink shrimps submergedinthecreamypaste in that metal jar...wheredidtheycome from?

Mangroves: a wide variety of trees and shrubs that provide low-oxygen soil. Mangroves, by themselves, provide fish supply, storm protection,andspawningterritory.This translates into a value of $3,375 per acre a year profit for over 5years.The large roots of the trees grow sporadically while it houses barnacles, sponges, worms, crabs, jellyfish, snails, and all different kinds of animals looking for a home. Farmers have converted mangroves into shrimp farmsinThailand.Oncemangrovesare converted for shrimp agriculture, they areonlyusablefor5years.

It would take $2000 in damages per acre to restore. That’s more than half of the profits made without changing mangroves, spent just on reconstructing the damage created.

While my cat sees a little yummy shrimp on his blue plate that makes his tummy rumble, I see the poorfarmerforcedintoadegradingjob position, simply to be able to provide foodforhisfamilyoffive.

VII.WeAren’tMeanttobeHere

The smell of the leaves unleashed as we stepped and crushed their brown, thin bodies. The sound of nothingness prevailed. Bare trees beside the evergreens are what's left. I wonder where the birds have gone?

Maybe to Mexico or Canada, as they fly ina“V”shape,flappingtheirwings throughthemisty,coldair.

As we walk, the smell of freshly cut grass dissipates in the air. The shy sun hides behind the grey, puffy clouds; little droplets touch my skin. As I walk through the pathinthe forest, I don’t see a squirrel orevenan ant.

Wearealone.

It is just my classmates and me... how unnatural this feels.Thereis something so beautiful about nature, and the crisp air, and the crunchy leaves, and the faint water droplets, and the rough bark on the tree, and light brown leaves that look like hair, and the vine-like plants, and the grey clouds,andthetalltrees.

Wearen’tmeanttobehere.

VIII.Astigmatism

Driving at night hurts my eyes. The red, yellow, and green rays oflightcluttermyvision.

Buildingafterbuilding.

Car after car. It all seems routine.

Pedestrians cross the street at unexpected times.Withoutthelightsof the car, there is no separation between the pavement and the sky. The car behind me honks, and I switch the radio to Hot 96.9 to distract me from the commotion. My thoughts fade into the brake lights and the chorus of Foolish as I drive down the streets of mycity.

IX.Hiding

I can hear my steps as I walk withoutintention.

Besides the Littleton diner, where an elderly couple shares an order of cheese curds, there is not much here. The fierce river while the water hits the rocks is the latest hit song on the never-before-heard soundtrack. The sun hides behind the clouds.

Sometimes I wish Icouldhide like the sun. I would hide behind the fluffy clouds, like a ghost. Like a shooting star, Iwouldsuddenlyvanish; my existence would be a minuscule blink in comparison to the lifespan of theEarth.