CANVAS in Poetry

Seymour Glass was scarred
by touching things he loved
a lemon-yellow blemish left
on his hand from the hem
of his first love’s dress
that he grabbed as she ran by
A precious pink pockmark
from touching the head
of his younger brother
at a matinee, in the dark
Like Seymour, I am also marked
by the things that touch me
and I wonder what you will be
A plaid patch on my palm, perhaps
A scarlet smear across my cheek
Purple staining the sinews of my neck
like a port-wine birthmark
I want to find out how you will
change this pale landscape
with your instruments of touch
In the meantime, I send you
pulpy messages of foolish pap
until we are able to invent
a new, more capable language
that is only spoken by our skin
and to one another
Your touch, the gentle tattoo
My body, the hungry canvas