Pon Farr
       

In the absence of Vulcan mind melds
      and Betazoid empathic powers,
we fall back on human abilities to read
      each other, our imperfect
transference of inflected syllable
      and raised eyebrow, our faulty
system of sentences, gestures.

      Would we be better off
Borg? All hive mind, hooked up
      to the neural paths of each other's
thoughts, emptying into and drawing
      from the same deep reserve.
No guesswork. In sync. But our tech doesn't extend
      that far. My laconic love, I want to touch

your logical face, thumb in the dip
      between chin and lip, fingers bracing
      cheek bone's arch. I want
to close my eyes and exit nerve's blue shoots,
      channeling through your Jeffries tubes,
turbolifts, warp engine. What's hiding
      here, on the holodeck? A banquet hall

with table runners, roasted swan,
      fistfuls of rose petals? Tarnished candelabras
lighting up a boar's head on the wall?
      I want the old blood fever to take, blaze
the cold grate, so even across the room,
      we can sense each other's
temperatures rise—you in dress uniform,

or no uniform at all.

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Copyright © 2020 Dayna Patterson All rights reserved
from If Mother Braids a Waterfall
Signature Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission