excerpt from Field Notes on Desire
If scientists are to be believed, then touch has always been a lie.
Don’t look at me. Blame our molecules
for the ways we are caged to our electrical orbits.
Every rushed kiss & brushed cheek are a trick
of the imagination, our brains trying to understand the world
as closer than it is. The truth is a lonely electromagnetism.
The universe propelling away from itself into an unknown
absence. So when I lie in bed, alone or otherwise, I am not
in bed really, but levitating above the voltage
of my own body. I touch nothing. But I am expected to try
to find myself in the maw of another, so fine. Let’s say
I’m not alone. Let’s say I’ve invited someone
over because I love nothing if not the lie. The hope
that maybe this time my want will take a shape
other than wine poured down a bleach white sink.
Defiant spillage. Brief but unrelenting vacancy. Like anyone
I can mistake heat for intimacy. I can mistake intimacy
for not wanting to die alone. But if I’m being honest
it still feels like a lie.
-Academy of American Poets
-The Shallow Ends
-Split Lip Review