The cell phone purrs. “Open me,” it pleads,
“put me to your mouth, whisper something.”
The pillows caress my hair, tenderly.
The floor beneath my naked soles
with its skin of shine
and smooth consoling touch
communicates as if flesh to flesh.
The faucet gleams like the beam of an eye,
winks provocatively in the sun,
and the shower pours and streams with rapt devotion,
probing every fold and pucker.
The towel rubs its pell against my body,
hugs me tightly and stays put.
Lather licks my face.
The razor nicks, drawing blood
with little bites of mischievous intimacy.
The mirror embraces me.

I know that I am blessed.
I know that I am loved.

A Message from the Editors

Our past successes are owed to our greatest ambassadors: our readers. Our future rests on your support, as The New Criterion Editor Roger Kimball explains. Will you help us continue to bring our incisive review of the arts and culture to the next generation of readers?

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 37 Number 1, on page 22
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