snapshot #12: jouissance
("look it up"
the reddening French professor mumbles)
of lying in your arms culminates one day
in three words.
your voice does not go up.
this is not a request, not a declaration, but
a book written in your tone, beginning:
My arms were open before you
ever stepped to the edge.
"look at me,"
summons my eyes to reach into yours,
flings a lifeline into the recesses of
illusory memory where I
reside-- sharp-toothed cave-dweller
what simple movement
an inhumanly total and simultaneous fusion of
every nerve pulled up at the
root, every single crushed vertebrae?
reveals the blindness of reduction:
we are neither one nor two.
the moment of struggle for first breath passes.
what resonates between is still not written,
requires no translation.