Where Are All the Hot Pilots: Thank You, Mrs. Guan

I’m four-years-old, and a plane’s flying above
the Hong Kong playground when my teacher,
Mrs. Swan, well, Mrs. Guan, but I’ll always
think of her as a swan, also known as the creature
I fear the most in life, because have you seen swans
bully ducks at the zoo, or chase brides
down the lake, eating their Vera Wang, and MTV captures
that moment, and I can’t switch the channel fast enough,
and maybe I’ve taken too many Renaissance art history
classes: Zeus as glitter, Zeus as a swan
wrapping his neck around Leda’s Rubenesque figure,
like Björk’s 73rd Academy Awards eveningwear,
a beak that’s ready to open, ready to feast,
and Mrs. Guan’s now beaming, pointing to the sky,
You’re going to be on that plane to America soon!”
And she must’ve been so relieved, the way I’d stand up
in the middle of class and stretch and eat crackers,
or write my name in Chinese too large,
or four-year-old date the only European boy in school,
and I remember his name, Anton, Anton, Anton,
and maybe I was the creature Mrs. Guan feared the most in life,
the little girl who wreaked havoc
in the Hong Kong classroom, and Mrs. Guan, thank you
for giving me my love of airports, which beats that Swarovski
swan I gifted you the day before I moved to Pennsylvania,
and thank you for that afternoon you pointed at the sky,
because I knew just then at four—I needed to escape,
but airports aren’t just about departures and destinations
to Hawaii over the sunset like a tanning lotion ad,
but arrivals, reminding me of that short-lived-eighties-style-
dramedy featuring the woman who booked JFK Airport
as her wedding venue—flights cancelled and delayed
and the unlimited energy and time and money, and yes, that’s excessive,
and Home Sweet Home is wherever I’m with the one I love
or Home Sweet Home, the ceramic pineapple engraving
my parents have hanging in their Vegas home,
and yes, Manhattans and double Wild Turkeys and Dirty Martinis
at airports are overpriced, but the more important
question remains: Why aren’t there any hot pilots anymore?
because damn it, I want my Vivien-Leigh-Waterloo-Bridge-
moment of cat-eye-fucking-every-hot-guy in sight,
in uniform, but my version’s in the airport,
not the train station, and there’s no ill-fated roses since I don’t even
like flowers, and Mrs. Guan, I’m sure you miss me,
and I sure do miss you, and every time a plane takes off
I’ll think of my glass swan on your bookshelf
shattering, and I’m just going to get out of here,
take my crackers with me, stand up in the middle of class—
Boy, I really hope this airport has some hot pilots.