POEM: Contact Tracer
Nothing is graceful in my walk.
I have all the poise of a dumpster.
But then I never spent much time on appearances.
Instead, I spend my time overcoming absence so that
I lose sight of the ease in enjoyment.
What I wouldn’t give to set up a tent and dwell in the cave of my own voice!
Thank God for the silence that feels like ice,
that breaks this sandpaper world,
So that I find peace in the clicking of a tongue,
Or the battering of a glottis, or the thrum of vocal chords
that align with the hum of a friendly world every once in a while.
Listening, say, to a poem read aloud,
a silent well surges within pulling at the liquid parts of me,
finding, at long last, ease.
Instead, before you, I flap my arms and with arched back, I
reach for the contact who has touched me and whom I touch, with
Invisible lines, made by the single clarity of moonlight that as a
god I could never imagine.