The Dynamics of Balsa

by Alison Craig

You built model aeroplanes after school
in the disused light of your living room.
Balsa wood planed smooth, almost soft
beneath your thumb, its confection of dust
embracing the air. Your dad helped
with the glue, steady hand matching edge
to edge. Then there was fabric, paint,
and the weight in just the right place.
Such domestic aerodynamics.

You were ready then, radio control
in hand, running full tilt towards the
precipice, arm bow-tight like a javelin
thrower. Timing was key, the sweet point
of release, the perfect trajectory for
soaring, swooping, rolling like a
Battle of Britain pilot. You wide-eyed,
breath held, trailing years as I watched.

One day you rigged a camera into
the fuselage. It brought back to earth our
upturned faces, picked our expressions
from the wind.

Last week, Tuesday 10am,
you phoned me
from the airport.
This was for good,
you said. America.
You had a drink
in you. Flying
makes you nervous,
and your dad
isn't here to match
edge to edge.

I caught kisses tossed to the sun,
sparkling in your wake, spilling light
into your shrinking footprints.