I THINK LOVE IS SOMETHING / THAT HAPPENS TO OTHER PEOPLE
like winning the lottery / or finding God in your sock drawer. I think love is something that happens to other people—nebulous, distant, an invention of the movies; I think love is like death / as in, it happens to everyone but you until it happens / to you, and then where else could you be but in love? Where else could you be but in the belly of the beast, / that oozing cavern where people go in fairy tales? I think love is a creation. I think maybe you shape it with your hands, I think maybe you find it stuck in your molars, I think maybe it comes to you when you’re in the shower, your face tilted towards the water while your mind melts somewhere else, I think maybe we’ve all been naming it wrong. You know that love? That falling-to-your-knees love? That where’d-the-water-go love? That hold-me-close-I’ll-never-leave-I-know-your-favorite- coffee-creamer love? That what-we-talk-about-when-we- talk-about-love love? You ever felt that? I mean, really felt any of that? / Yeah, tell me again how you feel it. Yeah, tell me again / how it fills the chest, fills the head, fills the lungs. Tell me again what it means to find God in your sock drawers. Tell me again.

















