Airport Security

by Peter Hogan

Airport Security

Love is the glide
of suitcase wheels on marble
and is like being
next in line for x-rays.

She asks to know
what I hide so I tell her,

I want wings without
removing my keys and belt.
I make bombs from liquid
soap, detonators from nail files.
So much of me is
metal that I’m not sure
which part the machine

detects, but to splay
before you is to acknowledge
I am not yet my unpacked self.

She asks to know
what I hide so I tell her

I’m known for wreckage,
sudden drops in elevation
and oxygen masks, bringing
the whole thing down
in a mushroom cloud

but I want her
to inspect my bones,
to have whatever
is in my pockets.

“Untitled. Columbia, Missouri. 2018.” by David Broussard