By Dayna Patterson
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 others’
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.
Dayna Patterson is a child of the 80s, a diehard trekkie, and long-time Beatles fan. She is the founding editor-in-chief of Psaltery and Lyre, poetry editor for Exponent II, and a former managing editor of Bellingham Review. Connect with her at daynapatterson.com