What is life if not the
warm touch of his
palm on my chest, if not the
wind's caress of my
neck's nape, a
space between
the jawline
and the collarbone
touched by a divine grace?
What is life if not shades of gray, a
horizon line,
dividing the overcast sky from
dull, flapping,
fluttering waves?
What is life if not a little voice calling out,
chiming through lyric
upon lyric, brick
by brick, layer
under layer of skin cells,
flesh, and bone?
What is life if not tiny grains of sand wedged between
my toes and butt cheeks,
bottoms of my feet
hopping between point A and
point B of
hot Earth,
hot potato, hot potato,
hot potato, you must land somewhere, eventually?
By Nicole Javorsky
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