on the way to our lungs.
But I have companions in this isolation –
Sometimes when I look down
I see my mother’s legs
complete with knee-knobs, and my hands
wear her fingers shaped by arthritis.
My dad is visiting
when I glance into a mirror.
There his face shadows
my own: his nose, the shape
of his smile walking over my mouth.
And how your eyes mapped every inch
of my skin -- all over me, tiny miracles
from you are here, so alive!
That’s when I realize we need not touch
to be touched.
J. Pratt-Walter, 4/1/2020
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