Ben Mirov
Touching
People say I have the touch
but I don’t see how my touch
is different than anyone else’s.
I touch four or five
brand new bibles
and feel exactly the same.
I run my hands over a Volvo
and detect no angels descending.
A woman brings her child to me
and I poke him in the third eye.
Thank you so much, she says
I never thought we’d get that thing
to close up and disappear.
At the end of the workday
I gaze at my hands
my ordinary hands and whisper,
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, my little ones.
The light bulbs. The parking meter.
Chopsticks. Grass.
People say I have the touch
but I don’t see how my touch
is different than anyone else’s.
I touch four or five
brand new bibles
and feel exactly the same.
I run my hands over a Volvo
and detect no angels descending.
A woman brings her child to me
and I poke him in the third eye.
Thank you so much, she says
I never thought we’d get that thing
to close up and disappear.
At the end of the workday
I gaze at my hands
my ordinary hands and whisper,
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, my little ones.
The light bulbs. The parking meter.
Chopsticks. Grass.
Benjamin Yoshimitsu Mirov is the author of ghost machines (Slope Editions, 2016), Hider
Roser (Octopus Books, 2012) and GHOST MACHINE (Caketrain, 2010). He grew up in
Northern California and lives in Oakland.