M. M. Adjarian
Matter Meeting Itself
I didn’t know about love but wanted to.
He knew more but not by much.
Children, we played hide-and-seek, truth
or dare until high up a hillside trail, all
geek and clumsy gawk he grabbed my
hand and felt the awe of matter meeting
itself. Red-tailed hawks, wings beating
hot blue air like hearts wild in cages
screamed above my head. Dismayed he
registered a single shockwave with a sigh.
Not love at first sight the engulfing, slow and
by degrees, captured us then let us go.
Years later, eyes wet from watching
The Lover, I met that girl again, saw her in
one wearing a fedora, the one a Chinese man
led unresisting into the backseat of his
limousine. They stared out separate windows
each bearing traces of the other and of
every wound, every shame that bound them.
A premonition of love, hidden, forbidden,
emerged in backseat hand dance raptures.
His fingers laced through hers, she
closed her eyes as if listening to the
roar of flesh meeting the profane.
