Svetlana Lavochkina
From the verse epic “Carbon”, to be released in October 2020 by Lost Horse Press, US
July 17, 2014, Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam – Kuala Lumpur
There is a tendency to believe that the Bhagavad Gita is only for the dying, hence it isn’t on the school program at Hindu schools. Yet my mother used to read it to me. I still catch myself speaking in its shloka meter at times. It’s awkward to squeeze the English speech flow into four-line stanzas of eight syllables each. These laborious, curbed steps are my life’s epitome.
Mother, cut the blue crabs in halves:
Your son is home-bound for a hug.
Blend cumin and coriander,
Mash tamarind fruit into pulp.
How I wish this flight was my last.
Since the last crash on March 8,
They have been short of manpower:
Same salary, double workload.
They guzzle us like pitcher plants
Guzzle flies: skin rashes, slipped discs,
Circadian rhythm disorder –
Ten years in the air suffice.
Sky-bound newborntricentuplets,
The passengers queue at the gate.
My smile, the umbilical cord
Unsevered until the flight’s end.
Check the fire extinguishers,
Megaphone, first aid kit contents,
Seat belts, portable oxygen.
All is done. The guests can stream in.
My current yoga, a contrail
Of conscientious kindness.
My adjna was charged with my home –
The hibiscus sun of Penang.
I swapped a flight with a colleague
To accelerate my return
Because I’m running on empty,
My cinnamon eyes bleached to salt.
Another year of this ordeal,
And I’ll apply to the Hilton.
I was one of their best butlers.
My voice still resounds in their halls.
The soothing prose dharma of bows,
My feet making love to the earth
Without those obese seven miles –
The troposphere’s contraceptive.
Each flight is a Gita of crafts,
A parade of titles and degrees
Plus dozens of fidgety kids.
The grapevine has whispered me this:
A renowned AIDS researcher,
A Dutch Parliament senator,
A famous Malaysian actress,
An Australian novelist.
The bridge is removed. All on board
Except an expectant mother
Who’d fainted in the lounge bathroom.
A shame we don’t have her with us.
She used to fly four times a month,
An Esteemed Traveler status.
I singled her out from the guests,
A bleak face in a blaze of curls.
She must be in love with her job,
Keen to go on even pregnant,
A polyglot queen of ten tongues,
A conference interpreter.
She used to joke that her taste buds
burst into blossom while flying.
She had this extravagant way
Of uttering her desires:
“Egg dahlias,” she would exhale,
“Salmon geraniums,” faintly
She’d murmur, “Roast beef carnations”
And put on her mohair socks.
Held by her stately Dutch mother,
A sweet half-Malaysian girl
Drops a stuffed toy in the aisle,
A fuzzy black-and-white monkey.