Love is a biological molecule but smaller, freer and shiftier than any other.
It may be resistant to my reflexes, which are tentative.
I am clumsy at the sequencing of bases.
The first boy she fucks points them out.
They aren’t a deal-breaker.
Same in the mirror as those of her aunt Sadie
Whose shtetl-growns were knocked out in a brawl with an aroused Cossack souse.
She yells, “At least I have them.”
He smokes cigarettes fist-wise. She smokes that way, too—just in case.
His appear stable, square and white like American houses.