The Flying Machine

Airplanes have not always scared me. Soaring in the sky used to be fun,
But not anymore. I sit still in my seat with invisible acupuncture needles all over my body.
Copenhagen is beautiful from the sky. White wind turbines swirl in the Baltic Sea.
Do I look out the window? Do I admire the beauty, or do I remain a statue?
Every ray of sunlight piercing through the thin plastic barrier calls my name.
Flying, I’m flying, but not for long. Faulty wiring, hijackers, who knows.
Gravity constantly grasps at this little metal box in the sky.
Have I prayed enough? Have I told everyone that I love them?
I could be biking, blazing down a Danish hill, wind in my hair.
Just a few more minutes before all of that is possible. Just so long as the clouds don’t
Kill me. My god, people do this every day. Perhaps, I am more likely to die sitting in my mom’s minivan,
Luging down I-95. I should be ecstatic to be here, in da Vinci’s impossible dream.
Maybe soon I’ll be trudging through a glossy airport, searching for my bags,
Not a dead body sliced apart by the violence of metal waves. Yes, for now my
Organs remain here, in this tense body. I can feel them swell, pushing each other,
Protected by automated mechanisms. Lungs, don’t forget to breathe. Heart, don’t forget to beat.
Quiet creaks and clangs and clinks emerge from the metal wings. Please, not now.
Right now, all you have to do is hold on. We are so close. You are a magnificent beast
Spiraling through the atmosphere, pirouetting on every molecule holding together
This strange blue realm. I know you must be tired. I couldn’t do what you do, but please
Understand that I don’t want to die. Not now. Fuck, I’m gonna
Vomit. I wonder where these chunks will go after they leave my body.
Will they be dumped into the ocean from a trap door? Can the airport’s
X-ray technicians see that my ribs are two different sizes? It makes sense, if one rib is indeed
Younger than the other. Sorry. I’m rambling. Maybe, if I just close my eyes, think of that
Zebra in my living room, that orange Ikea couch, my sister’s unfinished bowl of cereal…

Raskolnikov in New York City

I had expected it to stop raining by now.
Drizzling droplets cover my sweater,
which you warned me not to wear today.
You knew nothing would break the suffocating heat.

Now I am drenched in both sweat and raindrops
While I stroll home to tell you
you’re right.

I count the little burns covering my fingers when
I walk by Raskolnikov
strolling through the storm with a smile.
The masked masses rush home.
I get lost in my own story, forgetting
but not quite.

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Lillian Tzanev is an undergraduate student at the University of Richmond. She majors in Religious Studies and Russian Studies. Lillian is passionate about creative writing and finding inspiration from the world’s religious literature. She also enjoys learning new languages and currently can speak four languages: English, Bulgarian, Russian, and French.