ISSUE: Autumn 1998
There was a delicate white mole
in the crook of my mother’s elbow
that at the age of two or three
I loved to finger. Lying drowsy
in her lap while she sang, floating off
to sleep at night, I touched the soft
bump erect as a nipple.
Half dreaming I rubbed the morsel,
playing with the soft firmness,
counting its bead, the lone nevus
of comfort and connection like
a telegraph key that sent quick
codes of pulse and nourishing blood
to me at the smallest end of touch.