Here, the Search

Stops.
Leaking, invisibly
an evaporating cloud.

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What Would We Have To Hide?

Malai is mountain. Melayu is where we make things

run. It is the current of our river. For 40,000 years,

 

we have been split by the South China Sea.

Our ground eroding, our bedrock dissolving

 

we have always made what we need.

We make cars. We build satellites.

 

Trust me, the planes we make do not go up

without coming back down.

Dear Drowned Wings,

Apologies for sending so many letters, but how am I to stop worrying about you, buried blind under that black water, easy prey for hatchet fish, viperfish, spookfish, bristlemouths, all those ambush predators? Even if you don’t care about us, how can you rest down there

dear you, with your excessive wingspan, your polimer construction, your extended slats, loaded with 227 passengers, 12 crew, your hold full of luggage.  You who climbed 35,000 feet and vanished from tracking records while still climbing, dear 777, they say I should let you lie

with the government that guarded your secrets, your black silk underwear, your clandestine terrorist lover, your hidden hijacker, your inner fire, dear you who turned back when you should not have turned, unless

there wasn’t a spark when there shouldn’t have been, the pilots didn’t asphyxiate, didn’t lose their minds, if

there was a secret mission, if you crossed the Indian Ocean, climbed Everest, and landed somewhere on Shangri La, if you would write back to me, dear you, so much to answer for, you

carrying my friend, flying for the first time, still grieving.  She’d even named the baby.  When you took off, how your light reflected onto her face.  How she yearned for you to lift her over those mountains, across that water.