love as a field of study
love as a field of study
i know love mostly by its absence,
the ghost of it — an imagined hand
touching my spine. the shiver anyway.
but i am trying to catch it in the light,
to learn the delicate borrowed tongue.
forgive me for i have coveted.
it requires rapt attention.
i am a quiet observer, an academic
with the assignment of yearning.
when the breeze lifts the swamp-heat
and cools the back of my neck,
i take note of the swooping joy.
the gift of a plum, or a little slice
of orange, the intimacy of soft
flesh. a peach-flavored crush.
my sister’s shelf of little trinkets
and her crisp, untattered books.
how she’s disinclined to loan them.
when i close my eyes and let my cat
scrape my eyelid with her rough tongue.
this is her love, i know, so i bear it.
i memorize the shape of it
on other people’s lips.
i am almost ready for fieldwork.
i practice in anticipation. without a suitor,
i make due with myself. i worship
my own sharp jaw, the soft hair of my arms.
oh that sisyphean task, an exercise
in oath-keeping, the persistent choice of it.
what pylades called rotten work.
i am not easy to love, but i am
no quitter, either. i memorize the lines.
i feel its haunting in the old books.
when it comes, i’ll be ready for it.
i’ll know it when i see it.