     mak is the touch
of the potter, the thumbprint
on clay
the unfinished warp of wood
and braille
of grain

and knob
of rope that hangs
the squid that is dried
     for days
then eaten

with wine
fermented from
     dredges
of rice—

the Joseon potter
adjoins two hemispheres to make
a white
lopsided moon

exalt in these
imperfections

                 the act
of creation felt in
the thing

—not the smooth
not the screen—

                 and this grief
       that has no release—
grows inward
rooting into
      my spine, and
      from my head sprouts a flower
of gossamer blood
                threads,

bash it—
bash it in.

and the stones weep water,
and the stars sink
          underwater.

_____

a puddle
     of tadpoles tickle
her cupped
sunlit palms

twenty squirming commas
each with a beating heart

—amphibians are living
sponges
for pollutants—

she releases them
into the pond.

I tell my glum students
      who are trapped
on Zoom
I’ll set up a Google doc

where we’ll share
favorite poems
that remind
                   us of touch

and poems appear
like a scattering of ants
then
        trail off

      why bother

            jerking off’s
            numbing
            vibrator needs
            charging
can’t tickle yourself
when you can
predict your own
move-
ments

a poem can’t replace
                     his breath
my ear

spanking that ass

volunteers at the NICU
massaging preemies
      —tender newts—
so they’ll
thrive

O cuts and thorns
that leave a glove
of hives,

my mother never learned
how to hold
      a baby
though she spoon-fed me
till I was five

—she was a devoted mother
the obit says
when they don’t know
a thing about
her—

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