So strange how your bodies must
stay closed to survive, how you teem
at the walls of yourself: the pressure
your insides are under—
as if one could twist a cap and hear
the hiss of soul escaping.
But up here are species wondrously
permeable: who take into and release
from themselves with miracle ease,
in the way your right hand, say, might
pass through a beam of light, or how
you might dive into a body
of water. You’ve been wondering,
I know, about alien sex.
Though of course all sex is alien:
even within species, as if curiosity
were a biological dictate.
But the real stuff: what happens
up here, among the stars—
the spasms and plasmas
of a thousand thousand unlikely
interfaces: how creatures of stone
spark like flint; creatures of liquid
combine into a single current
and then dissociate, branch off into
separate beds or simply freeze
into distinct layers, according
to their differing densities.
Look, human, only to your own—
none among you without (after
a fashion) desire, and none that, cast
in the soft filter of appetite, won’t
pique another’s will. Well,
so it is with us: we need and find
and lose, and need and find.
—Benjamin S. Grossberg