Saira means princess

the flight attendant stands to the side
reluctantly
tray full of mimosas

the Indians have filled the plane
commuting home to London

I cannot fit through the turnstile with my luggage
and have forgot my card
the attendant smiles
and says
“you have to buy one sometime”

on the underground
the Asian woman leans in to me
and says in a level tone
“watch your body”

up above
the rail lines nest over the Jamaican chicken
which I am permitted to eat without napkins
sitting on my luggage

outside the huge door
400 years old
the Hungarian snarls at me to produce my money

we sleep inside the fog
watching the tea and the bananas
motorcycle men from all corners of the world
calling their wives
saying
“I am in London”

I am shouting into the phone at the poet
exclaiming that she is a slave
the Dutchman has come to study with the Jews
and he nods silently
while I conclude my call

outside,
the fat Indian takes my pound coin and hands me a phone card
with an enormous grin
like he has cast a special spell on it
to follow me throughout the country

the train agent inspects my documents
counting my sins
all of the false histories
lovers abandoned

the mosaics lie
swept under the huge fish
wrapped in paper
like swaddling clothes

the Scorpio hisses at my mouth
I’m split in time
trying to wedge in the iron
to look for the gold

I tell her I am going to sleep in the house of a woman I don’t love
she inquires if she is British

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at www.robindunn.com Read other articles by Robin, or visit Robin's website.