When I Got Drunk in Hyperspace,

Zoë Ryder White

I couldn’t find the bathroom door 
so I went down the line opening them all. 
I loved everyone I saw! 
Here is what I wanted to do: hold 
each willing face in my two hands, touch 
each set of lips with my thumbs. 
One had a jawline like the cut of a sail. 
One, the slenderest neck. 
One had such a beard, it was hard to find
his face, but I found it. Sometimes 
they reached back, we stood eye to eye 
holding each other’s heads, 
arms x’d across the gap. 
Sometimes one of us was taller than the other. 
And sometimes we took a step closer. 
I loved best standing near enough 
to warm the air: that six inches 
from chest to chest came alive; the space 
had muscle. Once, a woman’s wings 
got in the way until she realized 
she could lift them, resettle them 
around us both. I’m a little drunk, 
I told her. I think you might have wings!  
Stop talking, she said. 
Her wings were pewter, green. 
I left my left thumb on her mouth 
for a long time, until I heard 
the morning sounds: coffee grinding, shower 
warming up.  Every several years, the muscle 
of my heart runs wild for a stretch of minutes 
and I become the dirt road beneath it. 
I tried one more door. 
It popped open like a cork and I 
fell into tangled grass.