At the beginning of a flight
they tell you to always put on your own oxygen mask
before you help the child next to you.
I was the child.
The plane went down
somewhere over why-the-f***-is-this-happening, Wisconsin.
Your shaking hands pulled the mask down over your face.
You turned to look at me—
me, struggling for breath with my tiny weak lungs—
and turned and ran.

So you kept a parachute
stowed under your seat,
where I just had that s***ty floaty thing.
I guess they only come in your size,
and you probably couldn’t have held me as you jumped.
But the plane went down,
and it’s useless trying to find me now.
Here I am under the left wing—
No, I’m stuck in the right turbine—
No, I’m crushed in the cabin.
I am in pieces amidst this wreckage.
I hope you come looking
because my black box has a note for you in it.