How many apothecary drawers
could I fill with these deliberations?
The pharmacist’s paper cone
parsing out a quarter cup
of love’s resistant drug,
spoons measuring new prescriptions
for my uncertainty, hipsway, gesture.
Give me cobalt bottles
leftover from aunt iska’s cures,
albastrons of ointments, resins to resolve
the double-helix of desire inside of me.
Where is the votive, the vessel,
the slide rule calculation—
to know how much good love
alchemically speaking is
I want spindrift nights on swimmer’s
thighs. I want an Egyptian
elevator inlaid in camphorwood and ivory;
a West African drumbeat, an eggnog, a god.
I want waves and summer all year long.
I want you. And I want more.
Susan Rich will read as a part of Lit Crawl Seattle at Heineken City Arts Fest on Thursday, Oct. 18.