Foreigner

Did you think you could touch me--
whose palm are you pressing?
Whose shoulders bent,
whose raw-boned fingers,
whose lined forearms?
Who thought you could hold me--
who do your eyes encircle,
whose broad cheekbones?
Whose heavy walk,
whose mouth twisting,
whose square chin?

I tell you this nose
is only the snubbed barrier between us.
That I laugh
like scrawls on paper,
snorting keystrokes--
that I could meet you
in the hollow under my earlobe
or in the corner of my eye--
that I stride my face in unknown country
and rub my neck with foreign hands.
I was nearly there
when my eyes narrowed--
that I was only ever held
by the circle of my sockets
embraced
in their arching bone.