I’ve started to crave touch
Like water on a cracked rock,
Desert-hot, blinded with dust,
Knowing how rapidly it will soak in,
Knowing how this blessing
Will never feel quite enough.
I can’t quite imagine the sensation of enough,
And all I know is the touch
Of myself, over and over, seeking the blessing
Of repetition, dry skin wearing into rock.
There is a cradle of sensation waiting, I trust, in
Which I will submerge, cleanse myself of lonely dust.
It’s all I seem to feel: brushing dust
From aching shoulders, collecting enough
To drown in.
I turn my face to the rain, daring its cold touch,
A rush that could rock
Me to my core, win my blessing.
It seems thin, my blessing –
What can this husk offer but dust,
Forty-five years accumulated on this rock.
Too much, sometimes, but not enough,
Screened and screening, touch
Fingertip to tempered glass, breath in...
I’ve lived by the sea so long – tide in
Or out, but always present, a blessing
Of salt and movement, spray touch,
Licked lips, eyelashes, no dust
There only sand, and battlements, and force enough
To stroke away the most enduring rock.
So now I perch on my rock,
High and dry, bared teeth a rictus grin,
Too stubborn to say: enough,
To seek a closer caress for blessing,
Knowing it is nothing but more dust,
Another delay to truly loving touch.
Sometimes I rock myself, it’s not enough,
Grip and scratch a touch too much in
Secret blessings far from webcams, shaking dust.
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| Image source: Wikipedia article on aestivation. |
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