Before the Station I wish the traffic light to red for ten more seconds. I wish the train to be early or late, or a sudden parade to slow and reroute us back to my house— zip time up to seven hours ago, to linger on each inside-wrist, every- thing between those two points on the map, simple as the meeting of two legs. Transmute to the sheets you smoothed, seven minutes ago, to stay pressed together in rosy thread-count. I part them that night like two lips and they hold me in between, this limbo and timbre of limbs a symphony, missing only your crescendo, green light, & go.
Celestial Lovesong, B-Side I want to turn inside- out with your hand as the axis spin into silver, glistening fascia and network of veins, the map to heart and pulse everywhere I feel you even when I'm feigning nonchalant, pedestrian stoicism, I am all fireworks, indistinguishable glass and diamonds, gold chains as veins— that river of blood belongs back in my body, take me between your teeth, pour the life from your throat back into me, this pulse, I beat on our frequency.
Now, I write you into the waffle weave of this winter-heavy blanket, into the exotic chocolate's gilded wrapper, under the bent page of a poem you marked and kept in memory. You bloom upward, perfume curls like smoke around curtains, weaves between Venetian blinds like sun before dusk. I press myself into you like a flower left in a book, the pattern of your words on every petal. I spend the Sunday making poetry with my hands, spill it in your lips, it lilts in a whisper, every follicle responds and every hovering fingertip leaves whorls of molecular wonder, whole worlds. The next morning I am ready to fall in love again and I already have knit you into my life, a golden filament, a celestial thread, illumines within; we generate subcutaneous sunbeam. Now I write to keep the light in.
Alison Lubar teaches high school English by day and yoga by night. They are a queer, nonbinary femme of color whose life work (aside from wordsmithing) has evolved into bringing mindfulness practices, and sometimes even poetry, to young people. Their debut chapbook, Philosophers Know Nothing About Love, is forthcoming with Thirty West Publishing in Spring 2022; you can find out more at http://alisonlubar.com/ or on Twitter @theoriginalison.