“How Shall I Touch You Unless It Is Everywhere?”

September 8, 2017

—Mary Oliver, “The Gardens”         



“That tickles,” she tells me,

flinching, tugging my hand

away from blue lines

tattooed on her calf.


Not that I want her to twitch

or dance a frantic twist

from her prone position

belly-down on clean violet sheets.


I like to touch artwork

like holding a new book,

its unbroken spine, glossy

cover stock alight in embers,


orange-red, its scents

of glue & fresh ink

I smell on my fingertips

an hour later


as I will her concoctions of lemon,

honey, lavender. Not to say

I won’t spend time

staring at bare walls


behind the bends of her knees.

Sometimes I prefer to feel

the colors in my hands

like I’m holding an artist’s


rendition of the Milky Way,

scanning stars & gases,

searching for the arrow:

There you are.


Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload


June 30, 2019

June 29, 2019

June 27, 2019

June 26, 2019

Please reload