California is a dry thing,
A brown fringe of continent
Stretching north and south.
It isn’t until I’m west
Over deep blue
That I feel free, untethered to
Mortgages, cars, a salty marriage.
At this height
The clouds pretend to be islands.
The captain promises
85 degrees and clear skies.
The man beside me
Plays an outer space game
On his cell, manipulating buttons.
He is busy saving the universe.
Kirby Wright was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. He is a graduate of Punahou School in Honolulu and the University of California at San Diego. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Kirby has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and is a past recipient of the Ann Fields Poetry Prize, the Academy of American Poets Award, the Browning Society Award for Dramatic Monologue, the San Diego Book Award, and Arts Council Silicon Valley Fellowships in Poetry and The Novel.