Poem of the day-Katherine Larson

Here's a quirky offering from Katherine Larson, about whom Poetry Found has almost nothing to say. According to a review of her collection Radial Symmetry, her day job is molecular biologist, which you'll see makes sense when reading the poem.

Why I like it: what's not to like? Quirky, sciencey, funny, some memorable imagery, cameos from tequila and Norse giants.

Speaking of which, Aurvandil was a giant from Norse mythology. While Thor was carrying him across a river, his toe froze. Thor broke it off and put it in the night sky. Apparently, exactly which star inspired the story is up for debate.

Love at Thirty-two Degrees by Katherine Larson

I

Today I dissected a squid,

the late acacia tossing its pollen

across the black of the lab bench.

In a few months the maples   

will be bleeding. That was the thing:   

there was no blood

only textures of gills creased like satin,   

suction cups as planets in rows. Be careful

not to cut your finger, he says. But I’m thinking

of fingertips on my lover’s neck   

last June. Amazing, hearts.

This brachial heart. After class,

I stole one from the formaldehyde

& watched it bloom in my bathroom sink

between cubes of ice.

                               II

Last night I threw my lab coat in the fire   

& drove all night through the Arizona desert   

with a thermos full of silver tequila.

It was the last of what we bought   

on our way back from Guadalajara—

desert wind in the mouth, your mother’s   

beat-up Honda, agaves   

twisting up from the soil

like the limbs of cephalopods.

Outside of Tucson, saguaros so lovely

considering the cold, & the fact that you   

weren’t there to warm me.

Suddenly drunk I was shouting that I wanted to see the stars   

as my ancestors used to see them—

to see the godawful blue as Aurvandil’s frostbitten toe.

                               III

Then, there is the astronomer’s wife   

ascending stairs to her bed.

The astronomer gazes out,   

one eye at a time,

to a sky that expands   

even as it falls apart

like a paper boat dissolving in bilge.

Furious, fuming stars.

When his migraine builds &

lodges its dark anchor behind

the eyes, he fastens the wooden buttons

of his jacket, & walks

outside with a flashlight

to keep company with the barn owl   

who stares back at him with eyes

that are no greater or less than

a spiral galaxy.

The snow outside

is white & quiet

as a woman’s slip

against cracked floorboards.

So he walks to the house

inflamed by moonlight, & slips

into the bed with his wife   

her hair & arms all

in disarray

like fish confused by waves.

                               IV

Science—

beyond pheromones, hormones, aesthetics of bone,

every time I make love for love’s sake alone,

I betray you.