Flight Pattern and other works by Benjamin Lowenkron

Benjamin Lowenkron was born and raised in Virginia. He moved to Louisiana in the summer of 2005 where he has lived since, splitting his time between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Ben is the current editor of the New Delta Review. His poetry and fiction recently appeared in The Café Review and Fresh!

Thunder Over Louis Armstrong

 

Sat. Oct. 3rd and sick of big easy sweat the genius I am wishes
for November's blues whistle a commonwealth tune
snowflakes riffing trees knobbed bones sunset lit with southward wings
then Sunday gray drunk feet and wet chills Monday a perfect apocalypse
our heads are skyscrapers to clouds that hustle over a jackknifed truck
pink insulation snow on I-10
now there is thunder over Louis Armstrong another cold front
sixteenth notes pound the stockyard and all planes are grounded
New Orleans cannot leave

the waves her nature this song

I am one out of tune

Wednesday must become my apology

I am done with November and it isn't even all souls' I should catch
tropical dewdrops through the sunroof daydream
of Tabasco on every corner and the banyan bow of her eye-lids
or I could honk at the altar boy on Carrollton swinging charity buckets
and waving forgiveness to all the passing cars

 

Flight Pattern

 

a flutter of wings the hostel pigeons swarm
your laugh full of suicides pulls me towards the window
through the branches the Eiffel Tower sparkling toast
Champagne lights these lips our wings whisper Je vous aime le meilleur
covered in feathers blown across the sea
sundown on the banks Willowemoc Creek your hair
cast by the wind each strand a scented fly
across my belly full of hungry trout
alluring blue notes on the Blue Ridge Pulaski Skyway flooring your curves
a semi drifts into our lane we skid out of our skin and off
the side of a cliff into a bird our fingers interlaced feathers
our breath our wings in freefall we malt
                      and you become They
                      and They get on a plane
                      and They take off for Indiana or India
                      and I become an old man who becomes Saturday nights
                                                                     standing at the terminal window
heart clutching feathers
palms to glass
impact smudges
dead birds like broken dishes piled at my feet
the last flight home

those of us left behind wander the concourse
looking for validation machines
and drive off wondering how flight became a nest of broken wings