Love Poem

*I want I want I want*: that's the bare
shivering inside her rhetoric. I want
to touch her, through the glass of air.

Red nails red lips red hair.  Her metawear:
cherry construction-paper heart that beats 
*sweet ripe sweet ripe*, and then the bare

stone of self-advertisement.  Sister,
I know your sign, the wound...
To touch her through the glass of air

would be transgression, though I love her
in her loneliness, prism'd in analysis
(*therefore therefore therefore*, as if the bare

facts could be talked into something more
special), untranslatable as this: She wants
someone to touch her.
		Through the glass of air

she sees the world flown clear
of her reflection, though her mind beats out: *it hurts
it hurts*.  Sweet heart, I know.  To bear
touching her, through the glass of air.
			-Jenny Mueller
			-published in The Atlantic