The Chemist
Calculating the creation
of the complex
that is yet to exist.
Scribbled on a taft of paper,
Columb’s law
is pulled from his pocket,
the basis for the
forces between
charged particles,
he uses it
to move the
electrons in her
orbitals, to
change her color
when he presses his cheek
against her thigh.
When you kiss
in a laboratory,
it becomes a la-bore-a-tory.
(No one’s looking.)
He brushes past her
to lock the door.
Pulls the strings
to her dress,
lets it fall to
her waist. Bends
her atop
the slate table,
not noticing the
disrupted beakers and flasks,
mixing chemicals,
creating unknowns.
Buries her face
in his coat
to buffer her sound,
bruises her flesh
as he presses his chalk
thumbs into her skin.
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