Lately I think
life is hidden in your
hand on my feet, warm.
Life is touching
air with skin,
rain with long wavy hair, dripping.
Touch is what
plugs and unplugs us
to the source.
I saw it in her
as they laid her gently
in the graveyard, cold.
She was touching
with all her might
the January mud.
Her joyful voice
in my ears,
her hands were rubbing
my back still.
I was plugged in
without touching.
She was plugged in
without being alive.
Lately I think
life is this.
The source,
the binding force.
Every other thing
just a distraction.


Touch is


We made her
one of them trees
she loved so much.
We made her
one of them stars
in the vast night sky.
We gave her back
to the source
she belonged to.
When people die we say
“She will forever live in our
memories full of love.”
My grandma will be
a spring flower,
a bird’s wing,
or maybe
a jumping fish.