I want to touch every woman who
hasn’t been touched in years, I want to
touch myself in a way that cures me
of indecision. I want to be sure
simply because I touched myself,
I want to decide something
without it being miraculous,
I want little decisions to fall from me,
easing out of my body and into my life,
starting first with touching a woman.
I want her to crawl into my lap
like a housecat I’ll inevitably rehome
when there are more claw marks
than companionship and we reduce ourselves
to opposite sides of the house.
She gets her space, it spares my linen,
I want that first, I want that last, sweet feline,
the damsel feud, the lesbian bed death
gone international as I fever alone in my room.
The circumstance evades me. I want to touch,
I want absolute certainty, I want to predict
her breakfast cravings because I know
what I’m making the night before, I am softer
just having said that I
want to make her breakfast before she
hates me for the rest of her life.
First comes touch, then comes resentment,
then comes three planned meals a day
and putting the spark back in
with a different method of rubbing. At first glance,
everything is going well, I have
certainty in my grasp the same as I do the
cabinet handles, the spare parts rattling around inside
of the junk drawer and my lower intestine,
where was I going with this… I linger in this
amnesia until I remember, at last, my emptiness.
Oh god, can I touch you, please?