We forget that science is inexact. Unlike us it has
no end. Instead we must be direct. I
love you. How many times can I tell you before
the sun explodes? It’s hard not to feel like the earth,
sentimental about my past lives. Even the ones
where I hurt you seem perfect, fossilized
against the impermanence of this, everything.
It’s the thought I come back to when I imagine,
looking forward far enough, collision
of atoms. Catastrophe of cells. We have
all of forever to be separated. Why let it start
now, seeing and knowing what we do
of this world, one rock, a speck barely
hanging on to the shoulder of the universe
as it rushes toward its own exit. I
love you. How much poetry can we write
and still be perfectly inadequate.
Like objects in space we zoom past ourselves,
improbably greeting each other in the course
of moving infinitely apart.
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: