|Author:||Nola||Published:||about 5 years ago|
The calico angel with raffia wings sits on the box where we keep the firewood. A gold bracelet forms a crown above the faceless face. Without a face, is touch the only sense that makes sense? Is it easier to believe the faceless do not feel? That a caress cannot span the distance and be grafted to another soul without incision? That I am not accountable for embraces withheld, tenderness withdrawn, words without application? But if I no longer feel, what use are senses?
© Nola Passmore; Published in Poetrix, Issue 32, May 2009, p. 13