By Jedd Roche
The airport's flags hang from the roof,
holding onto their thrones of rafters.
I stand beneath the blues, the whites,
the greens of guardians that watch and sigh.
We wait for boarding call to take you home
and I am wishing I had tickets too.
Your hair thick, obsidian, and distinct,
will never be seen by my lost eyes, again,
no longer gray but red, like Russia's banner,
who, from far above, judges and sways
with Poland and Zimbabwe frowning at her sides.
To know I'm holding you the last time now,
I want to crush you here within my grasp
and I'll absorb your body into mine,
like farewell conversations that, rising up,
are swallowed by the hungry flags above.