“Haptic (un)Accident” by Alison Lubar

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.