Quantum Physics, A Love Poem
I am enamored of his warm hands,
his mechanics, his partial differentials.
A koala, or some other nocturnal animal,
he sleeps draped in the armpit of a tree.
His smooth shaved head, his high peaks,
his swollen snow-melt streams,
I rely on them, and his library of lost saints.
How many of his thousand books
has he read? A large number probably.
But I know precisely what he will order
from any menu. As well as
his latitude, his angle of repose, his f-stop.
He wears socks with his sandals. He kneels,
pollen-dusted, before the first daffodil.
Kathy Nelson, recipient of the 2019 James Dickey Poetry Prize and Pushcart nominee, is the author of two chapbooks―Cattails (Main Street Rag, 2013) and Whose Names Have Slipped Away (Finishing Line Press, 2016). She is a graduate of the MFA program at Warren Wilson College. Visit her at kathynelsonpoet.com.