River Wolton
Two Women at Miami International
The final hundred yards.
Your hand gloves mine,
I become colossal,
legs articulated to support
a superhuman weight.
A man stared at us
all through the last half-hour,
as if trying to count our breasts.
I leaned my face to you
put my fingers through
the armholes in your t-shirt.
The digital clock
has guzzled minutes,
it sits bloated
in the departure lounge
vying to outgrow me.
I’m planning the next seconds -
how I will kiss you,
your glasses in your fist,
each glance
full of hours.
Page(s) 31
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