Because I miss
you I run my hand
along the flat of my thigh
curve of the hip
mango of the ass Imagine
it your hand across
the thrum of ribs
arpeggio of the breasts
collarbones you adore
that I don’t
You could cup it with one hand
Yank the life from me
if you wanted I’ve cut my hair
You can’t tug
my hair anymore
A jet of black
through the fingers now Your hands cool
along the jaw skin of the eyelids
nape of the neck
soft as a mouth And when we open like apple
split each other in half and
have seen the heart
of the heart
of the heart that part
you don’t I don’t
show anyone the part
we want to reel back as soon as it
is suddenly unreeled like silk
flag or the prayer call
of a Mohammed we won’t
have a word for this except
perhaps religion --Sandra Cisneros
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