I swear she kissed me first, but I have
no evidence. I know the wine danced
in the glass like a siren, all lean in and slow blink,
I know the magnets in my palms spun until keys
flung themselves toward us from all
directions. conjurers always have to be watching
our hands. spells dove from simple gesture, simple
wishing, glancing touch. I know that I make things
happen. I’m less good at making them stop. the want
always wants more. that the wine danced
is just evidence of magic messing
with the everyday. this happens
most often after dark. after the sun’s been forgotten
long enough for the moon to seem like honest
light. for the cab to seem like a vocabulary lesson
and the long ride to a small room, a test
of how much our tongues can lift before the temperature
shifts. to dove is to rise like a creature
with perfect bones. to drift a hand across a forearm
at a bar is not magic or a promise, but evidence
of how want flints against itself to become visible.
when asked to explain how magnets work
in layman’s terms, the scientist said
I really can’t do a good job, any job
of explaining magnetic force in terms
of something else that you’re more familiar with
because I don’t understand it in terms
of anything else that you’re more familiar with.
why does the word palm dissolve in the mouth?
how to explain what stays on the body
for days, the kissed arm a stain of mouths,
the belly a well of hands, hands, want
and want and unstopping want. to watch
our hands is not to stop them from conjuring
but to know where they’re headed. to know
what they’ve sheltered, all they’ve let go. to dove
is to build something for as long as it’s needed,
then release. this does not stop the wanting.
does not unravel the spell or make the magnet
any less magic. it does make for a more beautiful
morning, though. the sun so much promise,
so lit, it almost hurts to look at it.
– Marty McConnell
gutted. not sure how much more digging i can do today. this is killing me.