out
of
it
p a g e o n e
copyright1999-2001, Christine HammScience gone mad
It's the chemicals, they keep telling us.
Hormones, pheromones, dopamine,
not to mention cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy.
In intro chem my friend and I pass notes,
mocking the teacher, Mr. M., his pear shaped hips,
the strings of spittle at the corners of his
mouth, but really we're in love
we have no idea what with, but
there's the heady stink of it in chem lab, mixed with burning gas, chalk,
bitter ammonia, and those
odd colored liquids, constantly spilling from
beakers constantly breaking as they slip from the gloves
Mr. M. makes us wear, gloves we know we don't need;
if they would only
let us get our naked hands on those elements,
everything would be all right, the crab monsters, genetic
experiments gone horribly wrong, would go back in the bedroom
closet the dreams of red sweat flailing elbows and disembodied panting
would stop
interfering every time we tried to read
Emily Dickinson, and our love, yes that sulfuric, phosphorescent
oil slick shining from our noses and cheeks,
would finally separate, in the centrifuge
between the lockers in the hallway of babble
into its basic forms,
into the most simple compounds and we would
understand the dizziness
tingling and explosions
and pass
just pass
the class
that’s all we ask.
One Night Standing**
Such freedom:
To touch this,
this new white trembling,
to see this,
myself reborn
pink and fishmouthed,
in the curve of his optic lens,
to feel this,
my knees, elbows and ass
tousled and flipped
like blond kelp,
to hear this,
this unfamiliar common sound
like a ship twisting against the hemp of the rope,
from this,
a common unfamiliar mouth
smelling of chocolate and beer;
and to say, this,
this in the moment,
this is enough.
**published by soapboxgirls.com