That Curve
This roaring fear is excruciating but I must
get back to the coffee bar in concourse K,
as I head off beyond Chicago, beyond this day.
From the vantage point inside this skyward
machine - I remember waking from last night’s
restless dream. I pushed your biology books off
the bed and, reaching out for your skin, I found
that curve where your hips begin. As my eyes
rolled back in my head, I caught a glimpse
that the first, the very first, slimy sea creature
must have noticed as it crawled out
of the water upon the stromatolitic new land
and was overwhelmed with many things.
The newness of it all, the heaviness of the green,
the sky, the odor, but most of all
the delicious possibilities of that curve,
that need, that urge to move up the beach,
into the green, and get together with others of our
kind. The trilobites before and the giant ammonoids
washed upon the shore. Crustaceans tell the story
dead in the shale. The shark and the whale. From
the curves of diplodocus to the Irish Elk’s ridiculous
antlers to you and me at O’Hare on a snowy day,
having a cafe grande in concourse K. Gazing out
at the airport world: The conference of employees,
what were they discussing? The de-icing
operations, the droning workers driving
baggage carts. All the airplane monsters.
When a sassy-dressed redhead with loose
curves walked past with an older man in
nifty black leather, I leaned over and said to you,
This is biology. This is natural selection.
All of this... pulsating hallway, rotating walkway,
elevating flyway, whirlwind window reflecting round
plastic tables with styrofoam cups half full of
instinctual
green memory. All of this comes from that curve,
that need, that urge to move up the beach.
