Canzone

With Our Own Skin We Feel



How raspy, the feel of your skin
against mine. Your hands are rough;
they do strange things to my skin.
It's only after, when we are skin to skin,
that the roughness seems to soften.
Then, oh God, then it is just skin
meeting, joining, burning. Then,
when those moments have passed, then
it is rough again, battered skin
that I want to smooth but what could
soothe such roughness? I know I could

find balms, ointments, but I don't think I could
banish the rough edges of your skin.
If I take away the rough, you could
not make my body feel as if sandpaper could
caress like satin. I push away your rough
hands, as if their harsh touch could
dull my desire, as if you should, could
change those hands or even soften
their impact, but they persist. I soften
my resistance as my lust increases, because I could
never turn those hands away. Then
all it takes is one more touch to make me squirm, then

cry out to you, begging you to touch again. If then
I am caressed roughly by your skin, I could
only blame myself. It's then, only then,
that I know how easily I'm won. So then
I resolve that next time your skin
won't touch mine. I am strong, then,
in the aftermath, resolute even, but then
your hands catch my back unguarded. Rough
and sure they travel down my spine, rough-
ly turning me without any protest, then
leaving my body, to tease. I cry out and you soften,
return. Those hands don't soften.

They grate and pull my and my resolve softens
and I an not stop you because then
I am yours, and though I soften,
I am both ashamed and eager, no soften-
ing of either hatred or desire could
be possible by now. So I soften
the blow to my pride with words that soften
your expression until you please me with your skin
again. I want you, I don't, but your skin
against mine is insistent until I soften
beneath you and melt into sheets rough-
ened by use. "You're too rough!"

I cry but you dismiss my life and rough
hands reach for me across the bed, soften-
ing only when they touch the tender places; rough-
ness is reserved for stronger skin. I rough-
ly try to answer you, but I know then
that I will always be the one who is rough-
handled. I cannot pretend to be rough
with my soft, lotioned hands, never could.
But I accept you this time, fool myself that I could
be the one to sand away the rough-
ness, although I know that your skin,
rough as you, brings pleasure to my skin.

So I reach one more time, skin
aching to be smoothed by your rough
hands. And when at last you soften,
I am sated, exhausted, wondering then,
again, if maybe I could.







2003 (published 9/17/11) dawn