Holding Hands Is Like Holding the Whole Body — Elizabeth Jacobson

Ice hangs off the roof like a bear claw.

Single drops of defrosted water

melt down long icicles which you catch

in a cup and drink with quick

licks of your tongue, pretending the taste of sugar.

You say: holding hands is like holding the whole body,

and you touch each one of my fingers,

naming it a leg or an arm.

You give each nail a part of my face.

I watch your small face at night,

green in the glow of the night-light.

It never stops moving.

Even the faint hairs on your forehead

seem to breathe as you dream you are

racing toward a gate swinging open.

In the morning you are up first,

going through the drawers in your bathroom

for a cloth to cover the doll house.

You rush into my room with your old baby bath towel,

the one with the turquoise trim,

and the little Carter's bow.

You say you remember this bow.

You remember that you used to try to pull it off,

that you wanted to tell me that you wanted to pull it off,

but you couldn't because you didn't have the words.

There is snow melting on the window frame behind you.

Drops fill in the tiny squares of the screen

magnifying what's beyond into oblivion.

I cannot see past you. It is you who delivered

solitude's ending.