Elephant Leg

There’s a part of you I cannot see or touch. In the dark, alone, I know every curve of your body. I could sculpt you from memory. Each detail vivid in my mind’s eye. The baby nail on your baby toe. This neck that takes to kissing. I know the moment when your hip becomes belly. Just there. But there’s a part of you I cannot see or touch. Hidden, I want to know it all the more. Behind your eyes, inside your heart, that essential you, separate from this fragile tissue hanging, draped, over bone. I watch you move when you’re not looking. Standing, your toes curling. Twisting the end of your hair while thinking. Asleep, I know your breathing. You hold the morning cup like a chalice. Little lines around your eyes deepen sometimes. These things are pieces of a whole I ache to know. This elephant leg obscured by sightless eyes can be anything. Groping blindly toward the totality of you, revealed in fits and starts. This life of mine no longer turned inward. Every day I have new discoveries to make.