What do we call this desire
to be desired? The milkweed’s impenitent bow
to the monarch or starlight. The heart’s timpani

at a sundress, a thigh,
a braided anklet. A kind word escaping the cocktail
glass. An olive in brine. Name it beauty

and chase will become
our watchword. Call it love and the sun will kneel.
Say happiness and “Do I deserve this?”

follows, rapturous, like a sparrow
pecking the ground. Instead of wisdom, why not
wish for the owl’s heart

at night, seeing in the dark
more than a meal, but a place to sing. Don’t imagine
a dirge for the eaten. Conjure

an exhale instead:
the hoot of being alive. Name it
                                                        whatever you like.

Steven Leyva, “Limerence”