- Vol. 04
- Chapter 05
The shadow of your hand
hovers above my face, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare,
but unexpected, disorienting— an ominous sign portending ill.
Or it is pressed up to the isinglass through which I see the world—
ghostly, like a paranormal visitation at a dentist’s office,
Or like the elusive dagger Macbeth sees before him,
this ghost eludes my touch, escapes my desiring to be
touched. But I am scarred, touched, but in the head,
not on the body. I want your hand and not the shadow
of your hand. I want the thing itself—the flesh, the bone,
the skin of the knuckles taut, balled into a fist, ready to strike.
But the shadow of your hand is all I find. Untouchable. A dark
spot passing over my cornea, evanescent locus of lost love.