At every stoplight
brake pads shed
microscopic flakes
of copper, zinc, and lead;
in every beacon—
a shine requiring
something to burn.
Filaments, maybe
or the glass that holds the window’s light.
I, for one, make no claim
to mastery over matter;
even physicists cannot decide
why glass is not a solid:
The particles
are in a traffic jam,
not crystallized, but waiting.
To be clear, all glass is liquid;
all glass is liquid to be clear.
So, every light is in an ocean
and each electric tongue
licks behind a stream. I am waiting
to be recognized as dangerous,
but just because the light
is red, that doesn’t mean
I’ll notice; it doesn’t mean
I won’t accelerate
even if I do.
Stopped, or not
everywhere the lights burn.
The window is still against the wall
and on my waist, your grip.
We pump like pistons;
you whisper always, as if love
were liquids ever in motion
not the spent copper or
what causes the tungsten’s hiss
when a lamplight’s coil pops.
Zach Linge’s publications include poems recently or forthcoming in such journals as Poetry, New England Review, Puerto del Sol, and The Adroit Journal, and a refereed article in a special issue of African American Review on Percival Everett. Linge is the recipient of a scholarship to the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, is an Adroit 2020 Djanikian Finalist, and serves as Editor-in-Chief of Southeast Review.