Airplanes (Second Place - Poetry)

by Zeke Hudson

Don't look: there are airplanes everywhere.
If we crossed oceans it was all to get back to the continent--
you know, the one our fathers grew.
Funny how these things come back to haunt us.
The sky is not so filled with buzzing now that the days are darker.
I once reached for your cup but you gave me your hand
and we ran like crickets somewhere into the distance
to escape the roaring overhead.
It's not so much a sickness as a mistake:
and we never called it a war; we called it the hum,

static, background music, something to keep our ears busy.
At the factories, women smiled with white teeth and sooty faces.
You said your mom quit her job there. It was the people.
She said they hummed while they worked.