Trusting, in the Haptic Sense

Well, over the course of my Ash Wednesday I managed to come down with some sort of nasty malady (my music director blames this on all my blogging—ha!). I don’t have backup posts like the cool, experienced bloggers, so instead of my partly-finished post (“Is my ash showing?”), you get my incapacitated-poster standby: a recycled poem. I’m actually pretty fond of this poem, and I was reminded of it recently because before getting sick I got to hold a beautiful, brand-new baby for whom the Moro and Babkin reflexes are indeed things to be sure about.


Trusting, in the Haptic Sense

Like Thomas, I stretch out my hand, hoping
for a brush with the divine—
Christ at my fingertips

I’ll believe in what I cannot see,
just let me touch it.

A bee sting, muscle cramp, or sunburn;
hunger, thirst, horripilation;
the Moro or the Babkin reflex—
these are things to be sure about.

There is feeling beyond touch,
but I am rich and weary and numb.

I want nothing more than your hand on my face.


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