From “Spring and All”

     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—