The Tao of Touch

What magic does touch create

that we crave it so. That babies

do not thrive without it. That

the nurse who cuts tough nails

and sands calluses on the elderly

tells me sometimes men weep

as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger

the bumping or predatory thrust

in the subway is like a slap.

We long for the familiar, the open

palm of love, its tender fingers.

It is our hands that tamed cats

into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror

thinking, no one will ever touch

me again, never. Not hold me.

Not caress the softness of my

breasts, my inner thighs, the swell

of my belly. Do I still live

if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many

ways, in curiosity, in anger,

to command attention, to soothe,

to quiet, to rouse, to cure.

Touch is our first language

and often, our last as the breath

ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.