ladies in the church used to shout, “praise! praise your holy name God! i don’t need no rocks crying out for me!”
for Solo Dwellers. A Psalm of [One Untouched]
60 days without touch, and i don’t feel crazy
should I? pills can’t fix “skin
hunger,” the doctor on the radio called it, which
makes sense to me, because my skin aches
like a belly fasting, and I believe touch is prayer
a psalm of praise my largest organ plays
in the scent of mint lip balm un besito left
on my cheeks in Mexico
babies’ burps tickling my neck
palms’ nerve endings resonating
with patty-cake residue
toes brushed along a lover’s leg hair
will rocks cry out, replace my silenced sense?
in their “hosanna!” will you hear the same song
my knuckles played last time they drummed
up and down a friend’s spine, muted
the devils trying to steal her mind? will it
be percussive like four thighs bumping
against each other in the night? or
will it glide through your ears,
mothers’ fingers and coconut oil
a harp duet in daughters’ scalps?
ladies in the church used to shout, “praise!
praise your holy name God! i don’t need
no rocks crying out for me!”
i used to think they were crazy.