A rail against reality poem about not being able to do anything about touching, and still being able to be touched when you can’t do anything about it and are meant to be doing something about it. Written a few weeks ago in response to Anna Jackson’s prompt no. 2 on the NZ Poetry Shelf .
I’m not sure that I wrote this with the younger sibling making trouble too much in mind because my sister isn’t too much younger than me and doesn’t make much trouble (not as much as some other creatures in my world anyway) but there are at least oranges and angels in this poem, or rant, probably more of a rant, and it was a very steamy, rather enchanted evening the evening it was written, when all the thoughts were there and racing like lawless sailfish, as per.
Prompt: Address something you can do nothing about – the weather, time, death, the morning, the pandemic – as if it were a younger sibling making trouble. Rail against reality!
it touched me, so I had to live to know
it’s so otherworldly, the elbow. an instrument of touch when touch is god !god! you really have no idea how much you have underestimated this part of yourself……for so many weeks……getting too emotionally hung up on your other anatomy what were you thinking. too invested in the fruits that give you labour so that you can feel useful and involved all at the same time. lately i’ve been stroking my oranges before I peel them to feel love, momentarily, before remembering myself and flushing them down the flange with my dead sex toy. i’ve wasted my eyes already on onions that stare me down like a fucking health benefit f u c k i n g hell all I wanted was an Edmonds frittata fuck. and so I had to. side-step down to the shop that wasn’t open anymore to waste my entire livelihood on a stinky gel to get rid of the sting that wasn’t there anymore and I accidentally touched a Persian cucumber on my way out so I had to buy that too with my fake ID and sucked it on the kerbside like a beast. and then it chimed. like a phalange pressing firmly the chime bell alarm I wake up to instead of church. ‘we’d better touch elbows then!’ it chimed, with wonderment merriment and glee. like one two three we are best buddies now, then? like okay, now, would I hug you if it didn’t put me on one o’clock television or make me look like a worser person to my neighbour’s cat? I actually didn’t want to be rude. just cautious. about touching. specifically just cautious about touching that thinks it can just.touch.me and teach me more about myself than I could teach myself about myself by touching myself. my sex toy let me touch it first which was friendly and then IT DIED for me which was so extremely otherworldly like an angel. angels always wait under your door frame for you to tie your hair into a topknot before getting into bed. and then they touch you, with at least some distance.