Berøring

Foto: Kjersti Holst, tatt med iphone

Det kom  nå et vakkert dikt av Marge Piercy på poesiringen der jeg er medlem. Hun er en forfatter jeg husker fra 70-tallet som en feminist som skrev flotte bøker. Jeg leste boka hennes “small changes”, og den gjorde varig inntrykk.  Jeg visste ikke at hun skrev dikt før nå, og jeg syns dette var svært vakkert!

The tao of touch

What magic does touch create 

that we crave it so. That babies 

do not thrive without it. That 

the nurse who cuts tough nails 

and sands calluses on the elderly 

tells me sometimes men weep 

as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger 

the bumping or predatory thrust 

in the subway is like a slap. 

We long for the familiar, the open 

palm of love, its tender fingers. 

It is our hands that tamed cats 

into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror 

thinking, no one will ever touch 

me again, never. Not hold me. 

Not caress the softness of my 

breasts, my inner thighs, the swell 

of my belly. Do I still live 

if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many 

ways, in curiosity, in anger, 

to command attention, to soothe, 

to quiet, to rouse, to cure. 

Touch is our first language 

and often, our last as the breath 

ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.

- Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New & Selected Poems, 1980-2010, 2011