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Nothing |
When you touch me
there is nothing.
Not the high
not the low
but the after,
even before
we begin.
And the numbness
invades my body
at the touch
of your fingers:
Those wanderers.
Those intruders.
Only the after,
when need explodes
like a bean
in a coffee grinder.
But it is not right to complain.
And it is not right to always
ask for more.
And it is healthier
to be grateful
for what I've got.
But what I've got
is the needing
and the wanting.
Wanting more.
Wanting to feel
again.
The heart fiends.
I am blunted
by your touch,
even before
we begin.
And when we are done,
that smile,
proud of yourself.
Where does it come from?
Next comes
your ritualized
tearing open
of a bag of chips.
You trade me
for the couch.
You sit,
enchanted by the taste
of your own
greasy fingers:
Those wanderers.
Those intruders.
Then, you
look into the
television
more deeply than you
ever looked
at me.
And that
proud smile
lingers
like an affliction,
like a cat
at a funeral.
copyright 2015
Jennifer
Bradpiece |
