The house of the body <br />is a stately manor <br />open for nothing <br />never to the public. <br /> <br />But <br />for the owner of the house, <br />the key-holder- <br />the body swings open <br />like Ali Baba's mountain <br />glistening with soft gold <br />& red jewels. <br /> <br />These cannot be stolen <br />or sold for money. <br />They only glisten <br />when the mountain opens <br />by magic <br />or its own accord. <br /> <br />The gold triangle of hair, <br />its gentle ping, <br />the pink quartz crystals <br />of the skin, <br />the ruby nipples, <br />the lapis <br />of the veins <br />that swim the breast. . . <br /> <br />The key-holder <br />is recognized <br />by the way he holds <br />the body. <br />He is recognized <br />by touch. <br /> <br />Touch is the first sense to awaken <br />after the body's little death <br />in sleep. <br />Touch is the first sense <br />to alert the raw red infant <br />to a world of pain. <br /> <br />The body glimmers <br />on its dark mountain <br />pretending ignorance of this.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/touch-67/
