Inkling
an online journal of poetry and prose

04/13/09

N O T      H O W      I      T O U C H E D      I T,    B U T      T H A T     

I    T O U C H E D      I T      A T      A L L

As a child I couldn’t leave things alone:

a perfect branch must be torn from its crux,

the bark of the black birch peeled back

for wintergreen. When ice began to limn

the shallow puddles, I tested the frost-hatched

covers, pressed my toe against the seam

of water and air. In the pearling fog of early

morning, I waited for the bus, breath-white

billowing, and played at smoking cigarettes,

held damp stems against my lips.

Then the jewelweed rose up. Snapweed,

touch-me-not­–-I rejected those names––

it longed to be touched. Genus: impatiens.

The striated pods grew full and thick,

pale chartreuse and then translucent.

Overnight they grew transparent, revealed

a small, black seed inside, a necessary

dark. When the pods reached their fullness

the lightest pressure caused release.

Over and over, an involuntary gathering

beneath my fingertips: the tangled curls

of filaments arced seeds onto the ground.

Standing in the laden bushes, over and over,

fullness and release. My breath white

in the dark morning, autumn-sharp air.

"Not How I Touched It, But That I Touched It At All" was originally published on Nerve.com.