poem by Emma Wilson
on the table must be brushed off
with a quick hand and collected by the other.
of orange remnants must be scrubbed
with equal roughness. calluses scrape the surface,
fingernails knead dirt
in the kitchen and the garden.
other fingers need my skin
the latent architecture of bones
and make patterns of
raised hairs on the back of an arm
that once seemed out of place, a violation
now things are clearer
and they compose a landscape
simple like sea-grass
that flutters and glistens
as warming whispers move across it.
i miss the feeling of the stucco wall
from which we plucked daddy-long-legs.
struggle is natural to them, their limbs scarcely
attached to one another;
they pulled themselves
apart in my light grasp.
i ran my hand along that wall later –
when the insects were gone –
i didn’t think of you. i thought of braille.
i found a furtive pleasure
and didn’t wish for meaning.