The Lost Pilot
BY JAMES TATE
for my father, 1922-1944

Your face did not rot
like the others—the co-pilot,***
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,***
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.***
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,***
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,***
read your face as Dallas,***
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads***
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.***
However frightening, I would***
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make***
you face your wife, or Dallas,***
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy***
orbiting, and I would not try***
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know***
is this: when I see you,***
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,***
spin across the wilds of the sky***
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were***
the residue of a stranger’s life,***
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,***
I cannot get off the ground,***
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling***
to tell me that you are doing***
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune***
placed these worlds in us.
James Tate, “The Lost Pilot” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1991 by James Tate. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Selected Poems (Wesleyan University Press, 1991)