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How many apothecary drawers could I fill with these deliberations? The pharmacist’s paper cone parsing out a quarter cup of love’s resistant drug, spoons measuring new prescriptions for my uncertainty, hipsway, gesture. Give me cobalt...

How many apothecary drawers
could I fill with these deliberations?

The pharmacist’s paper cone
parsing out a quarter cup

of love’s resistant drug,
spoons measuring new prescriptions

for my uncertainty, hipsway, gesture.
Give me cobalt bottles

leftover from aunt iska’s cures,
albastrons of ointments, resins to resolve

the double-helix of desire inside of me.
Where is the votive, the vessel,

the slide rule calculation—
to know how much good love

alchemically speaking is
good enough?

I want spindrift nights on swimmer’s
thighs. I want an Egyptian

elevator inlaid in camphorwood and ivory;
a West African drumbeat, an eggnog, a god.

I want waves and summer all year long.
I want you. And I want more.

 

Susan Rich will read as a part of Lit Crawl Seattle at Heineken City Arts Fest on Thursday, Oct. 18.

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