Liverpool Lime Street, Sunday Night
A wind like a paring knife peels the platform,
lights are dim and two androgynous guards
pace, cheeks bulging before the next blast,
a screel of suitcase wheels, a last minute stampede,
high pitched yells, a pause – and the whistle –
a semibreve as the train pulls out.
Boys and girls, men and women,
two by two, pressed against railings,
arms hidden inside each other’s clothes.
Slow angel kisses, eyelids and cheeks,
then, Eskimo style, and sometimes, a change
of beat, butterfly kisses. My queue is single file,
chins to necks, stamping feet,
blowing into fisted hands. Vacant eyes.
I want to be in the kissing queue.
First published in Crannóg, 2014