by Mary E. Lowd
My hand touches my face
A gesture that could mean anything
The skittering creatures of my hands
Have sought safety and solace
Cradling and protecting
The seat of my mind
The lonely, isolated center of myself
Filled with senses — eyes, mouth, and more
But only the spiders of my own hands come
To cling on
Arm wrapped around my own head
In the loneliest
Most defensive
Hug
No wonder I wish
For you to touch my face
Hold on to my hair
(Eyes stare into eyes
Unless you shut them out
And you might
So I can’t risk it)
But if you won’t
My hands will come
To the defense of myself
And by holding my face
Save my heart
From the disgrace
Of not feeling truly wanted