At Night They Have Nothing to Say to Each Other

originally appeared in Lyre Lyre

 

She makes superglue for a living

adhering balsa airplane parts,

broken vases, fingers

to newspapers, fingers to lips,

workers to factory stations, dolls

to make-believe houses.

It saves science fair project grades,

takes thumb prints, chooses

to smooth or to jumble.  It joins together

everything that should be

and messy things that shouldn’t.

Sticking to skin and paper hearts

even if it breaks them.

 

But he examines gaps

he can press under glass

 

to study the nil, n—

the shift

 

between naught

and aught, narrow and arrow

 

take apart with tweezers

little lapses from nacre to acre

 

notion to ocean, light up the fissures

between nascent and ascent

 

neon and eon

measure the molecules

 

between what the promise of never is

and what it wanted to be.