I can’t remember her hands.
Nothing else has faded
from my memory: the tiny black
flaw in one pupil, blonde
curls falling over her back,
the deep valley between her shoulder blades,
curves I named the way an explorer names the land.
It has been so long,
but her image is as clear
to my inner eye as if she were here.
Only her hands are gone.
I thought I was through with my tears,
but today I cry for her hands.
(Ken Zimmerman 1992) (previously appeared in Poetry East 33)