Lover, if you ever count the words before you, fevered verses lisped and lilting over bar napkins your syllables are soft and golden, the low reverberations of bass on a heartstring and the gentle lull of ocean tones to sleep— you are blue expanse in every direction of sky; I do not fret over your dust or our unbecoming because what was once stars will return to the sky again. I am not crushed under some immeasurable altar, but lifted, pulled skyward, celestial and tuned to the frequency of roots, grounded as the lightning that pulls back into clouds and its gentle rain, too: baptismal in terrestrial love, placing my hand on yours, my heart in yours, overlapping in savasana in the greenhouse garden with life all around and within. That eternal green is ours— we are roots, leaves, and stars.
Alison Lubar teaches high school English by day and yoga by night near Philadelphia, PA. They are a queer, nonbinary femme of color whose life work (aside from wordsmithing) has evolved into bringing mindfulness practices, and sometimes even poetry, to young people. Their debut chapbook, Philosophers Know Nothing About Love, is out now with Thirty West (May 2022); you can find out more at http://alisonlubar.com/ or on Twitter @theoriginalison.