Leslie Hodge

Dangerous

Touch-and-Go

 “Don’t tell anyone how easy it is.”
    What the flight instructor wrote
      in the logbook after her first solo.

But in Texas it wasn’t easy, was it, to find an instructor
who’d take me, or buying shares of a Cessna 150—
red high-wing two-seater, engine revving like a lawnmower.
I took off on dozens of short solo flights, Air Park to Denton,
cruising 1500 feet, flying 80 knots,
to practice touch-and-goes. Lower flaps, bleed off speed,
throttle back, nose up, murmur settle-settle-settle
feeling for the asphalt through the wheels, roll fast
and push the throttle forward. Join the other planes
in the pattern. Recite staccato the litany, Denton traffic,
Cessna one-niner-four-eight-one entering left downwind,
runway 18 touch-and-go Denton.
Sinking sun, on the horizon thunderstorms walk
on legs of lightning. The Cessna and I turn toward home.

Night Flight

“Those are stars, shining on the Red River.”
    What she told him on their first date,
      flying to Lake Murray.

When you have your license, and a small plane
hangared minutes from your house,
it’s easy to say to a guy, Let’s fly
to Oklahoma for dinner tonight.
Night flights were almost easier somehow,
lights on the freeways spreading out like a map.
The airport is just a single short runway—
no tower, no fuel, no lights, no traffic.
I land. We tie the Cessna down
and walk the dark road to the lodge
for a candle-lit dinner, no booze, 
then hold hands walking back to the plane.
A strong cold tailwind pushes us home,
blue norther fast as a highball train.

Cross Country

“ - ”
    What the boyfriend didn’t say
      when the plane hit an air pocket.

The planning was almost as fun as the flight,
from Air Park to San Antone.
Flying south following I-35—
no ceiling, monitoring the altimeter,
we cruise by clouds like fat white bison
lazily grazing the bluebonnet sky.
After landing at Stinson mid-afternoon,
we find a hotel near the Alamo,
have dinner where the waiters sing opera,
then margaritas on a River Walk stroll.
Next day, flying and fighting the wind,
his face is tense, pale and wan.
When I ask if he is feeling alright,
his jaw is so tight, he can’t respond.

Landing

“A good landing is one you walk away from.”
    What her pilot friends said, often.

At Nacogdoches, single runway.
A thirty mile an hour crosswind
strains the windsock perpendicular—
orange caution sign pointing away.
My left foot presses hard on the rudder,
both hands wrestle the yoke hard right
as the plane crabs sideways, fast descending,
straight and smooth down the centerline.
Nice landing, Cessna, says the tower.
I shut down the engine. He takes a breath.
Propeller slowing, one foot out the door,
he turns away, mutters Dangerous.
I twist the engagement ring around my finger,
press the stone hard into my palm.

Leslie Hodge has poems published in Catamaran Literary Reader, The Muleskinner Journal, The Main Street Rag, South Florida Poetry Journal, ONE ART, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Escape, is scheduled to be published by Kelsay Books in early 2025. Leslie is currently reading for The Adroit Journal. She lives in San Diego, and her website is www.lesliehodgepoet.com.