I have to assume we’ve already met. Maybe
it’s why I’m such an optimist. Like when I hold you
to feel my own particles returned to me. Saliva
cell. Peanut breath. The constant giving and
receding of the world moves me in its repetition.
Its reshuffling of options. The way a species sits silent
for a generation then continues in new forms.
Or stops. But I see promise in this history of bodies
hurting and eating one another. Remember
our pain, primordially, as the thing which
makes us, now, possible. Looking at you I feel
wet skin. Beard prickles. Nuisance of bones.
Parts arranged in a way that suggests
their likelihood for me.
When everybody we know dies I want
to be recombined as a new potential for loving you.
Why can’t everything we want be exactly what
we’ve always had. Nevertheless,
I trust the logic of change, know
in its predictability a kind
of bringing you back to me.
Victoria Le received her poetic education from the University of Michigan and Brown University, where she earned her MFA. She is interested in the ways empiricism and revelation interact with manifested life. Her poems and translations have appeared in publications such as White Whale Review and Transference. She is currently raising a son, a husband, and three cats in Tallahassee, Florida, where she teaches writing to inmates.
For more Victoria Le poems published in Orange Quarterly: