Love Poem

Mark the tree of veins that arch and gather, send
their cargo straight to the stutterless heart

at near-perfect heat, unrelenting through night jolts
and dream chill, unstill even in the gesture of dressing

after professional speculation on the inner workings:
stethoscope to sternum, a solid set of curious fingers

that push and tap, sound out the glowing limbic limbs—
laser in for a look at the lookers—and no note of what drives

the whole careening overgrowth, some tiny seed
of bark-wrapped amber, its ambit of woven ectoplasm,

oh reasoning shell, unbearable murmur, thrum
of the cortextual flower: I blossom.

Copyright © 2004 Rebecca Aronson All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission