 My name is Nikkele Price and my poem is Abort the Hawaiian Airlines. Abort the Hawaiian Airlines. If a road traversed the Pacific Ocean, that is how I would voyage to the land where salty waves lick the beach with their frothing tongues. A plane operates as a catalyst for my anxieties. I sit in the aisle seat of row 20-something when a sneeze erupts behind me. I can almost detect the prickly parasites as they hunt for a new host to pester. I need hand sanitizer to kill a hundred percent of germs. My jaw clenches as the stewardesses drone their monotonous monologue. No matter how many times I've listened, I retain nothing. Flotation device, these pancake seats are scarcely sufficient for anyone's butt. I need a Coast Guard approved life raft. My scriptures flutter on my knees as I constrict my mother's hand. The stewardess with a thick southern accent praises me for reading them. Tears splatter onto the pages as we surge through the tarmac. I need a highway to Hawaii.