Our love is a nervous system, a love
so base it’s cellular, a love that traffics
synapse, a mind-body love.
Our love is a finger, just burned, jerking
away from the hot curling iron, a love
drawing away without commands
to do so. Our love belly rumbles
when it’s hungry, and our love mouth-
waters, too. Our love—miasmic—
silent as mitosis, white cells
gathering at the site of infection.
Some just see a woman and a mute
kid, a beautiful puzzle. They don’t
get that the sign and world comingle,
don’t get the divinity waving in the air
when you tug an earlobe, squat
in the corner to take a big dump, rest
your ear on my naked belly and hum
along with the music inside me
which is the music inside you
and love a word we don’t need
because it’s in our bodies.
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