A scientist equates love to a chemical imbalance
in the brain which releases serotonin.

A zoologist states it’s otters, cradling the smoothest
stone in their pouch, holding hands to stop them
from drifting apart while they sleep.

A musician plays it off as the silence between
the last crotchet held by the orchestra and the rupture
of applause from the audience.

A electrician declares it’s crackling sparks
in reach like miniature fireworks.
It’s sliding a fork into a toaster without a fatality.

A poet writes that love is always fatal.

An astronomer proposes it is the night the current
and the stars competing for his attention: who won?
The stars, the stars, the stars.

An explorer claims it’s reinventing the atlas.
It is how the continents can’t stop steering away
from one another.

A magician whispers love is trickery.
It’s fooling the spectators into believing all of this is real.

My mother softly says the red spots we see
when we close our eyes are guardian ghosts
trying to leave us messages. “That is love.”

A blind man murmurs it’s recognising
someone just by touch alone.

An artist says nothing, but flings
yellow paint at the canvas.

A child exclaims love is fairy floss
stuck between her back molars.

An ambulance driver believes love
is making it in time.

I believe love is the way the sun
continues to blare down on us so ashamedly,
even when our eyes strain
to look at it.