Author: Nola Published: over 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That I am not accountable for embraces withheld, tenderness withdrawn, words without application?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