Donald L Pasmore

The Minneapolis-Saint Paul Airport

The diaspora falls to us like kisses drop from my lips
to your forehead. When I write lines about your eyes, you try

to crawl into me and pretend it is a right and good
and joyful thing. People ask why we live in the back

corner booth of an airport food court that smells
like greasy burgers and poorly refrigerated sushi. It’s not

our fault we were born here. The place my mother dropped me
half-formed is still covered with birthing blood. Eventually

I found you, hiding behind a counter. You didn’t look
lost. Uncertain and unhappy, but you had already started

moving. I learned your language: If fuel rushes into a burst of flame
that screams propulsion and change, why can’t we take each other

home? Permanence is not familiar, we fall ass-backwards
into the neon. We want to be filled with thousands of people

stomping out what was, shaping what is. You and I are
the same airport that never rests, constantly caressed

by pilgrim worshippers who seduce us
with philosophy and identity, shoving us

forward. Our minds are electrical systems that intertwine, a drop
of jet fuel racing to the ground, a sequence stumbling

on a destination and never wanting
to repeat. Live with me in that fluid

between: no labels, a constant catalyst we share
like the unsteady beating of our unstable heart(s).

Donald L Pasmore is a sophomore English major at Salisbury University who has poems published or forthcoming in The Broadkill Review, The Shore, and The Scarab Literary Magazine. He grew up in Delaware and aspires to earn a PhD and become a college professor. His other interests include philosophy, tabletop games, and amateur woodworking.