Every time I lived in a foreign country, it was the touch of my people I missed.
Fragrant warmth of my mamma’s rice-scented flesh, yielding to the sobs
of my stormy, sad head. Or my sister’s caress, sinking into my bones
like ginseng broth and boiled honey. Abroad, I cried less. Laughed less.
Passed through the world pristine & peripheral. Untouched. I admit sometimes
I felt I was starving. For just a little tenderness. An open hand, warm with light,
to smudge the ice out of my eyes. At times, the scalloped pink tip of a cat’s tongue
sufficed. At times, the sloppy exuberance of a dog. And I admit, every touch
pried me open and animal, stroked into softness and panting. Tail-wagging,
treasured, and tamed. What a perilous pleasure: to let the living get under
& into one’s skin. To expose the shyness of the soul, so deeply hidden
in the small of our backs, the wet of our mouths, the ache in our blood-
thumping chest. Yet here I am, unzipping my flesh, saying here—I trust you
not to hurt me. Or maybe, It hurts me to not be a body. Because touch
returns us to our bodies. Reminds us that home is as simple as two arms.
All it took was a sputter of flame for the little match girl to feel Christmas
seep through her cold fingers. And it was enough, wasn’t it—
to fall asleep to a dream of richness & laughter & fullness,
of loving arms to carry her gently to bed, tuck her in,
& kiss her (softly as snow) goodnight?