The world wants to be touched—
thin spikes of grass push up to bare soles,
the near weightless of the paper wasp nest
graces the open palms.
Cool earth crumbles between fingers.
Onion starts celebrate smoothness.
The chill rush of the river.
The comforting heat held in south facing cliffs.
The cactus spine was made
to prove how sharp it is.
The thorn bush tugs on the legs because it can.
And I, though I can be pricklesome,
I, too, long to be held, to be cradled,
to be kissed. I long to know myself
through the hands and lips of you,
the way the piano is most itself
when it’s touched, the way
bread becomes bread
when kneaded.