The bee, landing gently on her head,
touching every strand of golden hair
as he walked about.
Not once did she feel his presence.
Too light and sure-footed was he.
The wheelchair, rammed into the kitchen door,
scraping the metal footrests
and denting the wall.
Only through sight did he witness the impact.
Feeling, lost long ago in a blur.
The babe, lifted from her womb,
covered and wrinkled and
wriggling about.
She, not conscious of the scalpel’s intrusive work.
Drugs, strong enough to dull most pain.
The call, late at night from continents away,
soft and real and honest, lasting for
hours and hours into daylight.
The love, he feels always and near.
For his heart she touched long ago.
April 27th
Prompt: Write a Touch Poem
Tori Dreamer 