My body ceased being my body but
it was more of a body than ever.
There was sweat and spit.
There were hands and fingers.
Tumbling and fumbling,
clothes in a washer.
By the end of the deed
I couldn’t tell the difference
between his pants and my shirt.
Scientifically passionate proof
that love need not be forced,
that life is better unhurried.
I’ll fall face down off this cloud
to the floor of the launderette.
There will be bruises and wounds.
There will be black eyes and scrapes.
Bloody noses and a dislocated jaw,
I will be sore all over, I know.
By the time the bitter pill goes down,
I won’t be able to tell the difference
between science and fancy.