Bronwyn Carter


Hostesses bend on strong light bones
vending dialects of chemicals in hot towels;
chirrup across hotel lobbies and the sprawling
granite floors of these grand old airports,
mirroring exit lights in strange filaments
while the stench of an unknown
petroleum blend comes sputtering
from transports.

Above the clouds, twig by twig,
this nest was built for cuckolded orphans
and tramps too young to know

home deepens on a hard bed
lost in Beijing transit.