There are 807 Miles Between the Ordinary and Sublime

by Alison Myers

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Too much sweet vanilla cream

in a cold brew, or simple syrup

in a craft cocktail, implies the bitter of the sublime

is sublimated, numbed by a honeyed something:

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give me no saccharine panacea to blunt the ache of days,

and no ambrosial mist over the miles. It's immeasurable,

and deep, infinitely dividing.

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Zeno knows the number:

              of cells we've held between two hands

              or shoulders or naked arms;

              between the hum of a love

              for words and the earthquake

              of a nervous shaking leg;

 

the infinite divinity in seconds and spaces between parts

and heartbeats which approach, but never reach, one.