I could only speak in the sweet ironies of repetition, <br />So when he said, “Do not touch me, ” I replied: <br />“Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me, ” and <br />After a while again, “touch me”, till he turned <br />Tail on me and made towards the pool. I would <br />Have cried out some new and original thought <br />Had it not eluded me – but I could think only <br />Of the touching that wasn’t to be – the caress <br />He would ever forbear to offer. There was a cold <br />Shrinking inside me. Most parts of me became <br />Superfluous. I ghosted about the flesh-white <br />Stalagmites. Bats flew through me. When you <br />Whisper in the cave, I take your last syllables, <br />Shape them into the line of my jaw, the curve <br />Of my breasts, a suggestion of lips and hair – <br />Come close to embodiment, then fade. Say it <br />One more time. I’ll try it all again. “Touch me.”<br /><br />Giles Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/echo-62/
