Lube, Ars Poetica
The room is aching
the way I wanted to
sail
with super-silk
on our silica
-ed secret
an everywhere slip
into the nightgown
of you
the failure of form
only the mouth can make
so much
to glide upon
I detest my need
of you
the failure
of my body
to produce
anything but ink
useless time
and again
against my tongue
you taste awful
I know
you can’t save me
you are the location where
I save myself
when I am out
of my body
you cull me back
with a glissade
foamed with impatience
frothed with an imagination
I detest
how easy I thought
it was to know myself
to continuously learn
I only know the failures
of us
together, you could never
satisfy me
you are the only thing
I know how to ride
when everything else fell away
you brought me back
to show me how easy it is
to fall
or at least
that is what I told myself
to keep myself
satisfied amidst the failures
of friction
how I lose you each time
I insist on perfection
my body could never be
what I demand
of you
Copyright © 2026 by Lan Lesmeister. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 11, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.