a flight over Europe. west
in from Asia. and night
through some time zone –
I can't manage mapping the latitudes.
to me 2pm, but outside is all black
as a Liffey's thick riverwater
pushing past storm drains,
cloudless and horizonless, occasional cities
in the distance which shine
upon round cabin windows like poured molten
gold over ants. there's something, being sealed
in and 6km upward. perspective goes foggy. some passengers
sleeping, some restless and watching tvs. no-one looks
happy and no-one's good looking
in the dentistish light of no
smoking signs, plug in your
belt signs. the stewardess walks
like a fox between dustbins, up and down
cabin aisles, vigilant and cautious – handing out wine
in plastic cups, sickbags and pillows and earplugs.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated fourteen times for BOTN, eleven for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections, most recently “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)