by Betsy Martin
We lie naked on the bed
and you’re telling me
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
as the bright afternoon light
blinks through the blinds.
Betsy Martin works at Skinner House Books in Boston and has advanced degrees in
Russian language and literature. She lived in Moscow for a year studying at the
Pushkin Institute. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Assisi, Barely South
Review, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Minetta Review, Sanskrit, Front Range Review,
The Alembic, Pirene's Fountain, and others.