He’s finally stopped, 
the boy in droopy socks 
and runny nose,
stretched-out sleeves 
of his sweater flapping 
like dilapidated wings. 
The one who between 
Bombay and Singapore 
moaned and writhed 
in the aisle 
like a rain cloud.

He broke when we 
lifted off from Seoul, 
drenching us in sobs 
until we were beside 
ourselves, watching him 
stagger under his squalls 
of grief. But now, 
suspended over 
the dark Pacific, 
he falls still.

His father is peeling 
an orange, holding it up 
in the solitary reading lamp, 
where it glows like a planet
not yet named—a radiant world 
the father breaks open 
and divides between 
himself and the boy, 
one glistening section 
at a time.