My name’s on a shelf of frozen meals:
Korean BBQ, Thai, cilantro lime.
Wrapped in steamable, compostable joy,
it feeds you fast, leaving small footprint.
At least this version of me
keeps well, meals light.
My middle name insures the world,
a London firm, sleek and serene.
They hedge against collapse and flame,
but I’ve made no such guarantees.
Still, I wish to be remembered
as something that won’t crash or burn.
My last name lives at a Maryland college,
home of the Green Terror, teeth bared on banners.
But behind the roar are quiet minds
writing theses, painting futures.
Not all terrors destroy.
Some learn how to heal.
Boeing 747, Los Rodeos, 1977.
Two planes. One runway.
Dense Tenerife fog. Deaf radios.
The captain refused to wait.
He wanted to get home.
Five hundred eighty-three souls, gone.
The island still mourns.
The mountain still holds its breath.
So no, I don’t need a stadium,
a sandwich, a minor moon.
Name me in a pause before speaking,
in the quiet route home,
in lessons learned too late.
Name me in something
that won’t crash or burn.
