Collective poem from the Zoem online Poetry Reading group, August 14, 2020

The Untouchable . . . what is the one thing that is out of reach? 

The untouchable is that spot in the middle of my back that only my partner can itch for me, 
the sweaty up-against-each-other’s-bodies
single pumping rhythm in the front row
in the last hour at a Bruce Springsteen concert. 

The dead are unreachable. 

We are each unreachable to another.
We cannot visit.
We send starships.
Maybe they’ll meet, somewhere. 

The love you want is unreachable.
We build starships to no use. 

Me,
and you me,
and you,
me and you 
for this whole year,
at least to start and for love and for care and for safety. 

Nothing is unreachable 
the tendrils of our tenderness 
smile in recognition. 

The air hugs we give that don’t quite serve the same purpose. 
The handshakes we forgo that cause an awkwardness. 
The closeness we avoid that will make us all forget . . .  
to touch. 

The unreachable dead,  
too-reachable grief. 

The unreachable hidden variable. 

The unreachable word for one’s poem, elusive for years.
The perfect line, the one that lands me,  over and over, 
the one that never craves another line.

by the Zoem Poets