or, in the garden, contemplating E=mc2

Pulling weeds, after rain—the body of a woman
is the body of a woman, but the speed of light,

why, in the famous equation, must it be squared,
it’s already the speed of light?—early spring,

tossing my pile on the compost pile. We’re hit
with a double whammy in this life: sex and other people,

but there’s heat, that feral almost-chocolate smell,
and twigs of cedar—twiglets— tangled in your hair.

In the land of the speed of light squared, m must long
to equal e. Or so a borrowed body thinks, hat askew,

sun on neck, hummingbird at the fuchsia—suck away, pal!