Carolyn Forche Writes Billy Collins

The cabin attendant has noticed
that I can't open my miniature
bottle of vodka. The surface
of her smile says that she

would like to help, but
I have seen much the same
smile on other Chilean women
in the service of men.

It is a smile born of mud
and tin but worn like
Victoria's Secret.
She now sees the lid

come free in my fingers
and she turns to her
other duties: a mother
who needs a pillow for

her child, a business man
who needs a refill for
his coffee, a young couple
who both want another

packet of peanuts. Below us
pass the juntas, the bloody rivers
of her country that no smile
could conceal from my own.