Is there anything so extraordinary as a hand?
I asked, as I ****** his finger
with a gusto hungry to milk some essence of him
that would nourish me after his body left.
Your divine digits! These brilliant explorers, who
fragile as separate spring shoots, can teach and tell and build what
would last for ever.
If a Renaissance lives, it lives in these hands , these ingenious orchestrations that can musick and paint and sculpt and-
*-and write?
Yes darling, and that.
I migrated my tongue and attention to his palm and slowly painted his love-line pink, tasting his future.
Do you know, when I was once a little Catholic girl- they would tell their stories in Sunday School and I used to imagine the soul resided somewhere in your belly and felt like chicken noodle soup...
and perhaps not so, perhaps hands are the houses of soul where the most Authentic Self of selves resides waiting to touch, to hold, to caress... where the animal desires of humanity delight in the most truthful communication existing?
-Then... what is the common language? Id?
Yes, perhaps you're right. And love.
His other hand, jealous of my attention, spoke aloud in a sonnet of pinches and strokes that could have drawn tears of reverence were I not held captive by the decadent finger between my lips.
Between gulps of air he queried my fixation
and with a final holy gasp I testified:
**"Darling, touch is the only transparent sensation"