Matthew Thorburn
Winter 2026 | Poetry
Flying Home
He’s lying on the floor, on his side—
red sweats, yellow socks, one silver
sneaker—bicycling his legs
and turning in a circle. I sit nearby here
at Detroit Metro. I’m reading a magazine—
or I was. Now I’m watching, waiting
to see: What will happen? Because
he’s four, maybe three. Because this woman
who must be his mother looks ground
down, gaunt, her brown hair frizzing out
of its hair-tie. Because he’s buckled
into a harness attached—there is no
other word for this—to a leash
looped around her wrist. So he won’t
wander off. Won’t disappear
into the hundred-odd people milling
around the gate, yawning, looking up
from their phones, wanting to be there
already. I was older than she is
when my son was born, but I remember
that age. He let me hold his hand
whenever I wanted. Laughed often, easily.
Could be stubborn, though never needed
(I thought) to be tied to me like that.
I followed him everywhere. Now this boy
is singing the ABC song. Far off
in his own head, as I am too, remembering
when I could carry Preston, how warm
he always was, his milk breath on my ear,
the dead weight of his sleeping body.
I can’t stop looking, though I try not to look
like I’m watching. “Come on,”
she says in a frazzled voice. “Let’s go.”
But he won’t go. Won’t get up, even
look up, even when she tugs the leash.
Will she drag him away? But then:
“Okay.” A breath. “Fine.” She takes one
long step, turns back, leans close.
Yells “Monsters!” and we both jump.
Matthew Thorburn is the author of six books, including String, a novel in poems; The Grace of Distance, a finalist for the Paterson Poetry Prize, and the book-length poem Dear Almost, which won the Lascaux Prize. Originally from Michigan and for many years a New Yorker, he lives with his wife and son near Princeton, New Jersey, where he works in corporate communications.