Measuring Soil

Touch,

from behind

while at the kitchen sink.

A sharp peck at the nape of the neck.

A bouncing push of two delicate paws demanding attention.

There are special areas on one’s arms and back,

that are specifically tuned to touch,

like a National guitar tuned to open G.

I can remember specific moments where touch is like smell,

a faint talcum powder hint,

the air on a subway platform,

a wet dog in the car.

A woman is measuring the human experience with soil.

I wonder if someone will record what it is to lie in it,

naked,

utterly given over to the earth.

A wallower.

Isn’t that what we have always wanted,

to be that dancer where all the hands fan out behind her back and hips,

and then the palms and fingers caress up and down a sequined bodice?

Of course,

it is the dream of millions.

Someday,

I will take a mud bath and I will think back to when we were children

and we dug into the sand until we reached mud,

and then we plastered the hull of Mr. Wurtrzler’s boat with mud,

and because we were children,

we started to throw handfuls of mud,

and some of that mud hit the inside of the boat with satisfying thuds against the aluminum.

There is nothing like

throwing a fist full of mud

against a red rowboat.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog