Maybe they're right, maybe it is just chemical, just pheromones, light refraction, DNA, tactile impact, circumstantial scents releasing the balloons and banners in our blood, the trumpets in our heartbeat, the cheering throng of every pore and follicle.
I can see it as I've tried to be in love before with precise women:
faces and attitudes ripe for sonnets, all
I could ask for if I were to write out my wishes to Santa or Cupid or whoever manufactures these things; though now, I suppose, it could be science,
could be Microsoft or Dow or US Steel or Beatrice,
maybe my fascination with Little Debbie isn't so absurd, maybe that factory can box me some love
as long as they get the scent correct.
I only say this
because I am in love
and not with anyone like the description on my Christmas list;
she's an English major,
she needs cable TV, still lives with her parents.
She must just smell ok.
That'd make sense.
There must be an algebraic equation
to graph how the grey of her eyes can make me lose whole sentences already set in motion;
a chart surely shows
how a precise tilt of her head and vocal inflection can make me need to touch the skin curving over her shoulder;
and when my lips parabola up at
her voice on the phone,
it's pitch and timbre playing my lizard brain like an accordion and my stomach's sack of nerves
like a dulcimer.
Hippocrates, you old, bearded Greek,
how does it feel to be Venus?
Einstein, Hawking, Oppenheimer,
you could've been Garbo and Marilyn combined
if you'd looked to these little endocrines instead;
but no matter,
I'm seeing her tonight
and all I need to know
is up my nose
where there are candelabra and fireplaces waiting
for her to come close and light.
19 มิ.ย. 48 23:20:10