This woman who meets me
 in mirrors, who you alone truly
 undressed – she is out of reach.
 Her contours are translucent,
 they burn in flames
 like cellophane in the blind air.
 Your hands are the only borders
 I remember, they outline everything
 I am and everything I ever was.
 I am the line of red ocher
 painted on your grave, curving
 each letter of your name.
No touch alters your touch
 
How much piety is there inside
 a woman’s body when it sighs ?
 Each time you came, above
 and below me, I vanished
 into that one sound which claimed
 my body was no longer here.
The warmth gone, the unborn child.
I am, extend my thirst —







