Place its toothpicked pit in water, watch the grist
of its insides grow. Witness its populous bloom,
honeycombed with rough. Its cobblestones grip
the heart in its mitt, a closed fist thickened

and gritty as silt. The swamp of the plumb beat
adamant as weeds. The dish of which is salted

by complexities or cries. It is a house in which
we cannot live, the quiver on the arrow

we cannot launch. It grows late over Nevada
as we watch. Strikes its gullies: we grow burnt

as a moth. Mimics a sleep of archives and
the small lies all forget. Mimics all laughter

broken by the time it leaves the mouth.
With its moving parts, its chimes, its gleam,

it muddies our archways, lying low, gives off
noise and steam; its mechanics clear the fence.

It must be wooed. Must be quieted. Hush. It must
be soothed. Has a snag. Has a bleed. A drape.

Flaps awkwardly, at its edges, a heron. At
its center, a wide bottom perfect with fish.
About this poem
"In this poem, love is an avocado seed aspiring to roots, a grandfather clock, a stocked pond and a nuclear weapons test. 'Ode to Love' features the many ironies love keeps tucked beneath its unwieldy wings."
- Jennifer Militello

About Jennifer Militello
Jennifer Militello is the author of "Body Thesaurus" (Tupelo Press, 2013). She teaches in the M.F.A. program at New England College in New Hampshire.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Jennifer Militello. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate