Home > Uncategorized > touch is not reversible.*

touch is not reversible.*

Because I don’t understand this
in ordinary terms, I wonder
which shade of red
longing is – and whose feet
are these that walk among wolves,
wanting full as the moon, howling
from all corners, a feral force
of ravenous light –
tell me that death
does not come in all forms:
an absent touch,
a sun with broken bones,
the stain of a mouth.

How can skin vanish
like a bird, but not
stop the wanting? Where
has the night gone
with its hands, flinging
magic from an everyday wind?
This is too much dissolving
and not enough shelter –
a well of promise, unrealized,
a simple gesture
of the word abandon.

Leaning in, I am looking
for tongues – a rise in temperature
I can label a vocabulary lesson,
teach me how to unravel
in extraordinary ways, palms
full of joy, bending skyward,
perfection in an impossible kiss,
the everyday dark
gone wild – we are living
for the agony of things
given up, these traps
of silences singing with too many stars,
give me wine
and a world to run –
there’s no leash that says
we must live like this.

These are my hands
and my feet – I know where
I’m headed, hope tuned
like a violin, these notes
are a melody
bleached of innocence, and
there’s no visible evidence
of how we happened, but
here we are, conjured
out of ordinary skin:
let’s turn up the heat
and dare to believe
just how much we belong here.

*title taken from Marty McConnell‘s “The World’s Guide to Beginning

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