Betsy Martin


We lie naked on the bed
and you’re telling me
about terbium
and erbium, and other rare earths,
like lanthanum and praseodymium.
My hand rests on the soft plain
of your gut with its brown wheats
and your legs extend elegantly
in two tapering ridges.
My own body undulates gently to the horizon.

You tell me these elements are abundant
but dispersed, so hard to mine,
and not easily separated.
I wonder if we’re the only lovers
covering this ground
now, anywhere,
as the bright afternoon light
blinks through the blinds.