What does my touch feel
like to you? Is it
when you were eight
and freckled
on a warm summer evening
chasing fireflies with a Mason jar
in your hand, your mother
calling for you
across
the suburban backyards
of Pennsylvania and,
barefoot,
you float homeward
in gossamer linen?
When I speak what do you hear?
A renaissance
grumbled in
soundless heartbeats? A small scissor
of complaint? Flat steps?
Is my scent
something you could identify
in a bottle at Kohl’s
and say: “This is him,
my husband”? Do I ever
taste like the cebolla pizza
we split every Tuesday
at La Fornace, familiar now
and deeply satisfying? Like an
old shoe in your mouth,
cheese and oregano
on the tongue. Is it
kind of like that? When you
look for me in a crowd
from behind
is it my gray cowlick
you first recognize? Are you
come home
in that moment?
M F Drummy is the author of numerous academic articles and essays, and a monograph on religion and ecology (Being and Earth). His poetry has appeared in Mayfly, Frogpond, and The Mainichi. After 40 years of laboring away on a soul-crushing zombie hamster wheel, he and his wife currently split their time between the Colorado Rockies and the Ecuadorian Andes.
Eunoia Review 