It has been six months since someone touched me
and not even in that way—
I mean no hugs or handshakes, shoulder taps, back slaps.
The tech’s hands are warm
and this is the thing that surprises me, that I had forgotten:
the heat of another human animal.
Fingers move deft and strong along my tendons,
stroking with pressure, snapping
knuckles, sending zaps of pleasure along where tension
saps. It’s like a static charge—
the storm of electricity holding our atoms together
reacting to the contact.
I laugh because I can’t help it, even as I wonder
what they must think;
I am ridiculous, so undone by something so simple.
I cannot stop the tears falling
and they hold their own hot comfort, like the towel
wrapped around my hands
when the massage is done. This is the second manicure
of my life, and I know now
I have this way to be touched, and to touch, if I need:
the delicate interaction of hands,
the brusque motions as a kindness is dispensed.
–
Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet currently living in Pennsylvania. Xe is the author of the microchapbooks Love Songs for Godzilla (Kissing Dynamite) and Thanatology (Ghost City Press); xer work has appeared in Glass, FOLIO, Okay Donkey, Moonchild Magazine, and elsewhere. Gretchen enjoys writing poetry about gender and sexuality, history, myth, science, space, and unusual connections. Find xer on Twitter at @daft_rockwell.