My little flexible friend
smooth and pale as the Cream of Wheat
I slipped upon, in the kitchen there;
the elastic lips of my knees gape,
I stroke you with my finger.
Rounded corners frame your plastic beauty
as if you fear the menace of an unchecked angle against my skin
You worry about my well being,
your fibers grip my open pores
as if you yearn to remove my pain.
I cannot blame my blood for its frantic flow
for it is young, frightened—far from its vessels’ familiar paths.
But I know you will soothe, embrace, rock it to sleep
in your square cotton cradle.
Oh! If only my human friends could imitate
your primitive healing arts,
and clasp my pain when I am hurting,
comfort me when I am far from home.
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