J. Newman Pritchard

Scratch, scratch
not like an itch but like a stimulant, like a massage
of the little things further in, the nerves that do their jobs
and do them well
but rarely work –
so far away, as they are, so far;
Scratch to tell them that I miss them

It feels best to close my eyes since
my eyes get to work every day, between the blinks
like a moment of silence, of respect; they can take a break
to let me focus on
scratch
scratch

My fingernails make the sound, rolling over my skin
or really my hair
I don’t pull it out, don’t yank or tug or fell
just sail through, clean and still
Still tense? Still tight, like my jaw right now
Let it hang; no need to bite, since there is nothing there
nothing to chew on or spit out
Nothing that needs my attention
Nothing; that needs my attention, I suppose
like those nerves buried deep that need my touch
Attention is touch, and I am an octopus who wants to be
a microbe
Attention to spare, or attention to lose
all eight legs grabbing air,
or water would be better, since I am an octopus,
but that is beside the point

The point of my fingers still raking
scratch, scratch, not an itch
a demand, a hunger, but instead
attention, stimulate, waking up
It’s better when I close my eyes, since
that is one less thing to worry about