Limerence

What do we call this desire

to be desired? The milkweed’s impenitent bow

to the monarch or starlight. The heart’s timpani

at a sundress, a thigh,

a braided anklet. A kind word escaping the cocktail

glass. An olive in brine. Name it beauty

and chase will become

our watchword. Call it love and the sun will kneel.

Say happiness and “Do I deserve this?”

follows, rapturous, like a sparrow

pecking the ground. Instead of wisdom, why not

wish for the owl’s heart

at night, seeing in the dark

more than a meal, but a place to sing. Don’t imagine

a dirge for the eaten. Conjure

an exhale instead:

the hoot of being alive. Name it

whatever you like.