Poetry Journal February 21, 2024

  

I don’t know why I need to see her hands each time I see her, at the ring or rings she sometimes wears or doesn’t, at nails clear or polished, at the way her hands move, articulating a message of their own while she talked or stands, and I wonder (because it has been so long since I’ve been in contact with them) if they are soft or firmer as I think of other parts I once had the pleasure to determine for myself, impossible to get at all those important things, taken for granted all those years ago, the scent of her hair or her perfume, the taste of her lips, the feel of her face, cheek to cheek, all lost in the remoteness of the internet through which we now live our lives.

 

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