our plane’s wing slips over the crimson moon
and the man beside me asks for
a bloody mary and I ask for ginger ale
air bubbles I choke through my nose
into my torqued stomach full of
pesto pasta and sun-dried tomatoes
reminiscent of the old salad bar by my
old flat—there, I would stand in black ink-
stained ruby scrubs and look at
the black-ruby tomatoes and black-ruby raisins—
here, I fall asleep and miss the second round
of biscoff cookies and ginger ale and garden
salsa potato chips I miss my
old salad bar and I watch
the moon, and the black-ruby
bloody mary man
2025