I once loved a boy who built batteries
for pacemakers, miniature machines
that could glint a heart to life.
There were no secrets
in his fingertips; to make sure,
I held them to the light. Even so,
he had learned a way
to make a pulse. He might have
set it down like a wind-up toy:
a small bear stomping
across the table, escape
on its mechanical mind.
Now, my own steps stutter
when I sneak into the hospital
and figure out how
to bring you back. With me
comes every girl I've ever been,
holding hands to let
the current shiver through us
like spun sunlight: flaxen, fizzy,
a memory of miles, of measure,
time tangled together, copper wires
in my palm. Hello, gorgeous,
give me your hand.
We've been waiting
for you. So rise, girl.