Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms–

Rhiannon McGavin

how the particles that seed all matter are mostly void. Each nucleus is a maypole
for its electrons to circle, & their negative charges repel other electrons that spin
in other fields so the ribbon paths never kiss, only overlap, which means nothing
really touches– rain & dirt, apron strings, the phone nestled between your neck

& shoulder as you look for the pasta strainer. You wave one hand like a child
playing conductor, & this flail proves you’re not lying when your mother asks
about your day from upstate. When I was a crush, I’d watch you step away
downstairs to run this vaudeville routine, but you take the calls next to me now.

Your family pops through the window, stirs a pot, adds more salt. I am enough
of you to warrant this flavor of intimacy, these homeward sounds, for my own
mother to fret about how skinny you are. To make my birthday cake from scratch,
you wouldn’t just plant strawberries: you’d create another universe. I wanted you

warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday.
Of course you love me, you’re wearing one of my socks.

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The last line here is one of my favorite lines in all the poetry I’ve ever read. I wear this sock quite often.