Author: Nola Published: about 3 years ago.
Tags: poetry, justice Category: Poetry

The calico angel
with raffia wings
sits on the box
where we keep the firewood.

A gold bracelet
forms a crown
above the faceless face.

Without a face,
is touch the only sense
that makes sense?

Is it easier to believe
the faceless do not feel?

That a caress cannot
span the distance
and be grafted
to another soul
without incision?

That I am not accountable for
embraces withheld,
tenderness withdrawn,
words without application?

But if I no longer feel,
what use are senses?

© Nola Passmore; Published in Poetrix, Issue 32, May 2009, p. 13