Evolution
by Christopher Locke


The propellers coughed, sputtered
and then died: thank God
we were still on the runway.
That's the second time you've
skirted an abyss, I thought,
and remembered how yesterday
my marriage almost dissolved.
My wife gripped my hand tighter
as we watched a hurricane
of smoke plume from the engine
into thick tropical air.
Soon, men in orange suits rested
a ladder against one of the props
and argued in Spanish, unsure
of the problem. Lisa and I
argued in multiples of
"fuck-you" the night before,
convinced happiness was a joke
that went over our heads.

The swale of midday heat wavered
across the asphalt as the mechanic
whistled to the pilot, the engine
apparently fixed. We refastened
our seatbelts. Earlier in the airport
gift shop, Lisa examined a colorful
wooden bird. "What's this thing's
name again?" she asked, turning it
over in her hands: I couldn"t remember.
All I knew was that it was male--
the swollen, proud chest; its vivid
and arrogant plumage.






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