Reception
I was unprepared for the little surge of pleasure
that rang up my spine as I stepped outside
and felt the wind brush against my arm
Not unlike the sinuous warmth of the sun
pulling from behind passing clouds and pressing
hot life into your freckled, squinting face
Or the pleasurable scald of a bare body
slipping into that steaming bath, each pin-prick
a stitch in the seam at the edge of pleasure and pain
So much made about the sense of touch—
less about the sense of feel, to be touched,
to close eyes, open skin and receive
A finger
tracing
the back of your hand
Other nails
threading your shampooed hair,
lightly raking your tingling scalp
Deep-tissue massage,
knuckles pressed into the fascia of bare backs,
pain to unbind pain
Wading out past the break into the cold morning surf,
submerged fingers splayed open to feel
the surge and pull of the hidden current
Cupping the palm of your hand
against your daughter’s cheek,
and having her hand come up to cover yours
and press your father’s hand a little deeper
into her busy face, for just a moment,
without looking up, without a word
Peel Away One Strip
Peel away one strip
then the next—this is the most
we can ask of life
Settlers
our lives are calling us
always into action
our minds searching
for itches to scratch
we don’t do it well
just being still for a while
close your eyes
leave them open
either way
being quiet
listening
stillness is a great frontier
what about your forgotten feet
you could begin there
so assumed so granted
have you ever noted
the pressure of each foot
resting on the shifting earth
they know so well
better perhaps
than you know them
inspect
like a detective
the state of your muscles
unpack your shoulders
unfurl your brow
unclench your jaw
then add back
your smile because
smiling is always the point
you might set out
for the unexplored country
of your resting hands
you know these well
every crinkle
but did you know
in the perfect stillness
of your lap if you listen
how they will tingle vibrate
how they will share with you
quietly offer the story
of every living nerve
do you hear it now
the relief
in the unquiet silence
like stepping out
of the loud party of your mind
onto a secret balcony
to hear the sweetness
of distant cars passing
birds wind in trees
and your breath
come back
if you will at last
to your own breath
your first home
your first act
wiggling
from your mother’s womb
before crying holding suckling
there was breath
come back to it then
in your blessed stillness
do not assume it
hear it
fill your expanding lungs
feel it
slowly push back
into the waiting world
stay for a while
visit
like a long-neglected friend
watch it the steady in and out of your life
like you watch your sleeping child
like your mother watched you
try not to worry
your mind will lead you astray
things to do bits of fantasy
the rehashing of what
cannot be changed
the fear of what does not yet exist
this is where the beautiful engine
that is not you
always wishes to go
like a child
lead it by the hand
ceaselessly back again again
dig deep
it does not matter
always patiently back
to your secret balcony
your tingling fingers
your resting feet
breathe again smile
open the door
listen
stillness is a great frontier
[su_panel background=”#f2f2f2″ color=”#000000″ border=”0px none #ffffff” shadow=”0px 0px 0px #ffffff”]Ryan Warren lives with his family in the San Francisco Bay Area. His poetry and other writings have previously appeared or are forthcoming in Lost Coast Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ekphrastic, The Mindful Word, U.S. 1 and Plum Tree Tavern.