White hands, milk white hands, white
hands, pressed against the inside
wall of your mother's uterus; imprint,
impermanent and strange,
reaching for her father's distant physique.
While we're waiting, the curtains
fall,
catching fire; flames
blowing, howling,
and the intermission ends.
Molested youth, battered with
advertisements, price tags,
political propaganda paraphernalia; clink,clink
three lives for fifty cents, but where
is the fresh-cut watermelon?
the candles on my birthday cake?
leaves of grass, tickling bare feet?
We've exchanged a world for a world,
let's do this thing.
YOU ARE READING
Please Don't Touch
PoetryPlease Don't Touch is my first self-published book of poetry, written and published originally in 2012. #51 in Poetry, 3 June, 2017 #85 in Poetry, 4 June, 2017 #108 in Poetry, 25 May, 2017 #136 in Poetry, 26 May, 2017 #149 in Poetry, 24 May, 2017 #1...
