Claustrophilia

By Alice Fulton

It's just me throwing myself at you,

romance as usual, us times us,

not lust but moxibustion,

a substance burning close

to the body as possible

without risk of immolation.

Nearness without contact

causes numbness. Analgesia.

Pins and needles. As the snugness

of the surgeon's glove causes hand fatigue.

At least this procedure

requires no swag or goody bags,

stuff bestowed upon the stars

at their luxe functions.

There's no dress code,

though leg irons

are always appropriate.

And if anyone says what the hell

are you wearing in Esperanto

—Kion diable vi portas?—

tell them anguish

is the universal language.

Stars turn to trainwrecks

and my heart goes out

admirers gush. Ground to a velvet!

But never mind the downside,

mon semblable, mon crush.

Love is just the retaliation of light.

It is so profligate, you know,

so rich with rush.

Source: Barely Composed (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2015)

It’s Complicated: Love Poems