Taking leave of one’s senses,
they call it, when someone
is supposedly going crazy.
What they mean, of course…
Touch
would you give up
the stretch of a cinnamon roll,
the smoothness of pudding,
the crunch of a cucumber…
I touch my stomach, tracing
the ghost of where
your hand gently squeezed,
marveling that you like…
The smooth cobalt
of a sky you can’t touch,
not so much that you can’t reach
but that if you did, it might swallow
you whole
I cannot, will not ask,
of course, it’s not my business,
but I am curious…..
We just need a touch,
A held hand, hug at night, love…
just because
I’m no longer mad —
well I can still trace
my fingers down the lava scars
Tip-toe through the jello
of my mind. Avoid touching
the walls. They jiggle.
