A passenger in the row behind calls me a bitch 

for reclining my chair on our eleven-hour flight.


My daughter holds her teddy bear to her chest,

looks to every other reclined seat in the cabin


wondering what I have done wrong. 

I lounge as if I have not heard his insult


into an execution of how long I can pretend 

to be comfortable. You should upgrade to first class 


if you don’t like it, is what I imagine I could have said 

while in line at the post office or shampooing my hair. 


A recurring daydream, where I chuck pistachio shells 

over my headrest, knock the fresh whiskey 


off his tray table. I do anything but curl 

into myself, stare out at the plane’s wing. 


My daughter peeping between the small gap 

in the chairs as the attendant tucks him in 


with a complimentary blanket, 

wishes him a pleasant flight. 


Photography by: Ramy Kabalan on Unsplash