FIRST TOUCH

A curious young woman

only at home in the woods

was a classmate in Modern Lit.

She embraced the world with

a smile, reminding me to look

at this and look at that and look

at that and look at this. Birdies

perched on her shoulder, snakes

curled in her arms, she limned the spirit

of stones by their shape, size and heft,

scrutinizing chrysalises, slugs and cocoons.

On the bank of the Iowa river,

sward as green as the hills

from Galway to Dublin, we

puzzled over “Asphodel,

That Greeny Flower;” milky blue

sky darkened, thunder rumbled,

we ran to route 6, a lone phone

booth on the road to the airport.

Her fingers groped for my hand,

rain gushed down, windows fogged,

body met body toe to toe in an intimacy

of shadows, flashing light and oak-cleaving

thunderbolts.

Her fingers inquired with care,

gently pulling, pushing, testing

the limits of stretching each digit,

knuckle and joint, slowly sinking

fingernails into tips of each forefinger,

pinky and thumb.

My breathing hypnotically deepened.

Heat radiated on to my palm

as she traced lines as if searching

for which might flow to the Nile.

Like Helen Keller, a deep-sea diver

or an explorer of Pluto, Venus and Mars

her touch reconnoitered the world of my hand.

Dreaming or awake all I know now

is whenever it rains I’m ready to mate.