the mystery

By: David Banach

I am yearning still to know the mystery of sex
and the mechanism of desire what the pulleys
and how the belts and drives that move us,
the gear teeth against teeth and the furnace
burn steamed and sheathed in this flesh.

And they tell us that it is a lightning electric
brain spark in a center of pleasure evolved
to move the mammalian to caress the
puppet strings to press the seed of our species
into the softness of time but what does this say

but that I am body my body does it
but what is this but another metaphor,
the weakest of oxytocin and brain and blood.
The soft of your hand on my brow and the smell
of the flush of your chest tells me much more.

It is a fog in the mind a pinprick sharpening of
attention on this tip of skin the feeling of my
fingers being felt on your thigh the seeing of your
seeing me in my seeing of the scene playing
out in your mind that science cannot see.

It is the dance of intentions the invitation
and response the ask and the tell the over
under around the limbs the limbic bloom
of a smile and a tiny expiration of the
perspiration distilled from the warmth of ardor

the odor of aspirations the long last gasp
of memory entwining itself around two
sets of limbs and then it is over.

If there is love somewhere in it it is
a ghost in the machine the warm
of impressions left in the now empty
sheets as the heat fades away.

David Banach is a philosopher and poet in New Hampshire, where he tends chickens, keeps bees, and watches the sky. He likes to think about Dostoevsky, Levinas, and Simone Weil and is fascinated by the way form emerges in nature and the way the human heart responds to it. You can read some of his most recent poetry in Isele Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, Passionfruit Review, Terse, and Amphibian Lit. He also does the Poetrycast podcast for Passengers Journal.

Previous | Next