There's turbulence, like always. Strapped in. The flight attendents in their trim blue
suits squint down the aisles. Something underneath my feet is rankling. The salt at the
bottom. The sea out the window, drowning its sorrows, its black plastic bags. In the
baggage hold lies someone's llama. Don't worry, it's dead. The man next to me talks
about taxidermy, his marriage in June. A honeymoon, then he's retiring. How long
before his hands forget what it feels like? Folded skin cold around them. That llama's
eyes looking into thin space. That llama's loving eyes.