Amy Miller


If you were anti-love then I
was annihilation, both
of our tubes frothing and held
by the big insulated tongs (use
two hands) next to the glistening
apparatus that created our
selves, one drop by precious
drop, then mixed with the long
and sterile wand and brought
to the boiling point of some
late-discovered element. Kept
in our polar wings
of the lab—crystalline for you
and mine untouchably molten—
we waited for the hour
of mutual immolation,
the clock’s steel hand
excited by the seconds.

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