Not the hem of his garment.
Not the fleeting brush of fabric,
peripheral, unnoticed …
Not the hem of his garment.
His wrist.
His solid, haired, warm right wrist
and this, my hand,
my [in]elegant white left hand,
holding.
Seconds, skin to skin,
eyes closed only to feel.
—So. You’ll never wash it again!
Yes I will. I didn’t take anything …
—No photograph? No autograph?
I didn’t need to.
Not a piece of him.
Not taking—
giving. Giving
energy/information/spirit, call it …
call it love. Yes, that.
Focused on the interface
of skins. Unafraid.
And if I received anything—
a blossom of spirit,
not a blessing of sweat.
So yes, I’ll wash.
Anyway, he doesn’t wash off.
Jackson 