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.