To be touched is to be loved.
Underneath the skin lies our
Loudest voice, tingling tepidly
With the hot anticipation of fingers.
What replaces our touch of our touch,
But the warm and gentle touch of
The one who lays against our body
And coos softly the names of evils,
Low in the darkness, hands roam my
Body in touch, but not in love,
Scraping roughly along in something
Feeling like punishment.
Touch was suddenly the rush of hot
Wind on my face, the soulful smell
Of corn liquor, the heavy weight
Normally left to Sunday preaching
To squeeze us in this failed way.
But touch now had its own sermon
On the wrath of God and the impurity
Of thinking about love. Don’t touch.