Thirty-Six Hours (Davina)

I. Sunrise

Honey gold licked through the back van

windows, stuck warm to our clothes

and ran down our sleep-muddled hair,

took the jitters running indigo and itchy

through our veins and turned them

into light. Soft glowing amber 

crowned every head with a horizon

of its own. 

Maybe it was a blessing, 

maybe the emblem of beginnings, rising

neatly at the inception of our journey

as if a marvelous coincidence designed

to soothe our fears and awaken our souls 

with promised joy. 

Maybe it was just beautiful.

The road flowed along like a golden river 

and the tires rumbled like an old song,

and the sky brightened like an unbidden smile

as we drove on and on.

II. Sunset

There's a map on the screens

where you could watch the night move

across the ocean, you could

watch the night

move.

Somewhere above the sea

we crossed the line that separates the 

sun from darkness, we crossed

that elusive

line:

You did not know it yet, but

you were a casual time traveler with

sleep truncated, a casual sleeper 

traveling through

time. 

III. Sunrise

it was different, five thousand feet

in the air. like the dawn broke on that

flat edge and bled all over it,

deep crimsons and phosphorescent

orange almost too close up

and brightly neon to bear. 

"my first african sunrise,"

said the man on my right.

mine too, 

though the craters and hills beneath

were not african land nor african sea,

but dense gray cloud—

soaking in the day's birthing blood

till it was all innocent white,

and the sky faint blue again.

belonging to no country but the heavens.

lucky me, on the left side of the plane

as we flew south along the night's borders.

across the aisles they leaned over, 

craned and cracked their necks

to taste a little of the new morning.

i drank it all up, mouth wide open

and throat aching.

IV. Sunset

Breathe, finally.

The wind can touch your face

at last, its fingers smelling of smoke

and diesel and somehow pride,

or freedom.

Do not close your eyes.

The evening comes with a welcome

of rain, cool and light as the day

prepares to sleep,

but you—you are not dreaming. 

The bus is crowded and your 

cramped legs are numb, 

but the windows are wide open, so

look out at the dimming sky and

breathe. 

You have come so far, so long. 

New terrain rattles loud in your sternum,

this old land's way of settling into 

your heart, and though 

the road seems endless, you know

that rest is near. 

You have come so long, so far,

a traveler now with newborn night 

sinking into your blood, 

as we—the friends, the blessed,

the brothers—

drive on and on.