I Cannot Say That When I Saw You You Did Not Look Like a Lover
       

I.
But I fear our
palms, held
distant, hold more than
palms pressed
close. Desire is capacitance. Usually. In my case

it is needlework and pain—that
is capacitance—with a glowing
pinpoint that threatens
to defect, desire mere field
lines gathered alongside.

Wafers of distrust wedged between.

II.
Between
the planetarium and its dome, I have
finally learned.

Learned to savor. Learned to dwell. Learned to live
on the nourishment of glass
beads and air that leave
only texture on the tongue. To leave the skin
an unfurred cloth that weeps
its charge. To harbor only untried faiths.

III.
Poised above the star-
gazers' stiffening
necks, amid dialects

and loss, I am reckoned
45 as among the supergiants: We decay,
or arc to ground.

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Copyright © 2013 Chloë Joan López All rights reserved
from Quelled Communiqués
Elixir Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission