Touch

Steam rises
a specter from suburban streets
After the most recent torrent in days of intermittent typhoon.
It's still not enough
to wash the week old doe blood
from the pavement.
Did she steam, too,
that cool night
when you first saw her strewn?

You wonder about whether she had a fawn
if it will survive on its own
thoughts then drifting
to the child you held earlier.
His dark, flattened curls nestling
against your cheek 
smelling of sweaty park day
and naked, illicit kiddie pool jumping.
Fingers idly brushing
the soft skin on the back of your upper arm.
He'd be tickling you
if the pressure were any lighter
or harder
so close to your armpit.

We let them touch us
the small creatures
in ways we wouldn't allow others to do.
Even intimates.
Those self conscious places
we all hate
and wish were different
or didn't exist.

We trust them implicitly
because they trust us.
Not to kill them.
Not to eat them.
Not to leave them
on the side of the road alone
as we bleed crimson and steaming
in the brisk night air
the stars shining so brightly
we could reach up
​and grab them.