Before there were screens we were magic.
Before we started crossing streets with faces
glued to glass, before we began seeking out
love in Google searches, 14,580,000,000
results (0.68 seconds) but never one exact
enough to capture the whole of it. I miss
being part of a world that loved me back,
a living piece of its anatomy, apart from
this instantaneous, delirious, nauseating
madness. I remember when I was young,
using my hands. Kneading bread with
bare palms, dough collapsing under my
weight, holy labor. And later, plucking
tomatoes from the vine, beads of sweat
collecting at the hairline, nothing to
preserve the moment but that feeling
of worthiness, that my shoulders, mine,
my own, had been chosen by the sun
to be kissed like that. I can’t remember
the last time my hands moved that
gently, assembling and dismantling
the invisible frame of reality. Know this.
I once touched the bones of this world.
I scattered fingerprints on real things.
I lived to see it and I haven’t forgotten.
That sort of magic.