Braille
A tiny scar that marks a
long-ago mishap or misdemeanor.
A slender ridge left by an
ancient scalpel.
Faint dots and lines,
barely more tactile than a tattoo,
in the shadow of a breast,
the lee of a thigh,
the curve of a hip,
that startle my hands because
they are like invisible jags in silk,
minute blemishes
embossed on flawless skin.
Cocooned in love’s sleepy afterglow in my bed,
your body is warm like hushed earth that
remembers a newly departed sun.
My hands sleepwalk across this
mythical landscape,
stumbling eyeless across
a scattered alphabet
in which I’m not literate,
the coded script
to a life that has now joined mine.
There will be plenty of time to learn.
For now, my fingers are content
to gather up their stories,
undeciphered, into my dreams.
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