Praise the miracle of glass that allowed me to touch you
before I ever touched you, telegraphed your palm’s heat
& its nearness to dawn, assured me the heave of your chest

chases a precious pulse that holds back death & its chariot.
Praise the spell for the woman drenched with moonbeam
laughing in the back seat of my father’s red automobile,

the slope of your neck as you shriek birds into the cool dawn.
Praise the marvel of a love I have yet to bury.
Praise the miracle of your dark hair. Your fingers tightening

around the leather armrest as we tunnel through bright & wind.
Your eyes catching in the glass like headlights. The safety label
swearing subjects in the mirror are closer than they seem.

— NATALIE WEE, from “Asami Watches Korra in the Rear-View,” Beast at Every Threshold