Skin Hunger

The cashier dropped a nickel down

and brushed my palm, a grazing heat.

I almost said I’m sorry, or

I almost fell right at her feet.

I sat through two hours of a film

about a war or maybe love.

I found I’d wrapped my arms so tight

I’m bruised beneath the wool above.

A red mark from the heavy seam

is pressed into my bicep now.

It’s pathetic how I’m holding on

to myself, because I don't know how

to ask for what the body needs

without the shame of being bare.

I’m just a bundle of old nerves

shaking in the lobby air.