a polished poem

It’s because she’s leaving
and that I just met her
that I’ll have to make my own Mitra
from these not-forgotten parts

I’ll start with the mouth
so we can say stuff
eat meatless breakfasts

She has a great smile
and that’s how it began

Her nose I’ve felt with mine
it will re-form, I think as I inhale

To get the ears just right, I trace hers with my fingertips
they are small, intricate in design

I lose my hands in her hair:
it’s soft, straight this day, and everywhere

I see her shape, get a feel for the face
that I’ll remake from my memories

My hands are found and function
they kneed her shoulders like dough

I stop, for now, to study, to steal a kiss
If I must remake I have to taste her

We cold-water kiss cheeks
and necks
and mouths
with eyes open, with eyes closed

I squeeze her bones to my body
we roll round so I can get an imprint

Her fingernails, I notice, are nice,
in good shape
white tips of equal length come out
to her fingers’ ends

Connected, of course, too
to darling digits

I hold and shake her hands many ways:
the Soul;
the Secret;
the two-handed and solid;
the boyfriend / girlfriend

Skins slide by, and
held hands pose as images are recorded

I turn myself upside down to look at her from this other angle

Touching her toes, I feel her feet
This woman walks

I cradle her calves with my hands
to the touch they’re smooth and cool

It’s these legs
that I have to duplicate at a later date

Sitting and standing and lying down
my make-believe Mitra, here with me

Her intense eyes seep into mine
that smile, that Great Smile
laughs at something silly just said

Her body next to mine
Under cover and in an unmade bed

My mental-image Mitra looks at me

She smiles, does not cry
for she’s happy for what she’s had
seen and felt

Not sad for what she’s lost
forgotten,
can touch no longer