Crash

I am the last woman off of the plane that has crashed in a cornfield near Philly, picking through hot metal for my rucksack and diaper bag. No black box, no fuselage, just sistergirl pilot wiping soot from her eyes, happy to be alive. Her dreadlocks will hold the smoke for weeks. All the white passengers bailed out before impact, so certain a sister couldn’t navigate the crash. O gender. O race. O ye of little faith. Here we are in the cornfield, bruised and dirty but alive. I invite sistergirl pilot home for dinner at my parents’, for my mother’s roast chicken with gravy and rice, to celebrate.