Scientists We Are Not

If you were a mathematician,
within our confusion
of limbs would you discern
their crude geometry
and, measuring length of this and
that, might you calculate
the angle of my thigh and calf
curled around your flanks
or the circumference of hugging arms
circling your neck?
From these deductions, could we
reduce our sated need
to an equation, or
devise some prosaic formula
for happiness?

As a geographer, would I
map the topography
of your body
(oh, please, please)
and trace the dusty trails
my lips have travelled,
plotting a course
from here to there,
across desert-dry skin,
along the ridgeway
of your breastbone
down to the pastureland
on which I have feasted –
and in my doing so,
could I simplify these wonders
to a few squiggles and lines
on parchment?

Would the biologist
in me merely name the parts –
in Latin, of course –
describe their function
and dependence, one
upon another, and
fooled by their procreative
purpose, explain each blessed
union as no more than a bestial
act of Darwinian

And, were you a theologian,
would you identify those distant gods
whom I – in my delirium –
have invoked,
whether in rapturous worship
or carnal blasphemy,
and define our infant love
as some new religion?

Hush, my darling,
leave the scientists
to their tasks.
Instead, let us
dwell in our
of blissful

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