Always, she says
between manoeuvres to land the two-seater plane, always
sort hopes and truths into separate bags well before a wash.

Where, I say, did you learn to fly, or more to the point, when?
She continues to flick switches.
No, don’t tell me, I say, you never did, did you?

And she bumps us to a halt, but doesn’t know how to open the doors.
Eventually a kindly passer-by fetches a ladder
and we scramble through a window, I with two laundry bags

she with her last remaining tooth in her fist.
That way, she says from solid ground,
there’s not the slightest chance of confusing true and false,
hope you remembered the coins.

2014