Amos Oz writes love is in the fingers. We read the Braille of others until we see. Surprise is palms remembering, recognition a rise in temperature; it’s a wide open question what in a new place one must touch. Memories are private, the foreign tongues. People build a chain of pasts as they go. And we unravel what’s past at every step to make space.
I came to meet a self of mine I recall having sent forward. (I’m well-advanced for someone stuck for so long.) You feel the floor for old nails with your new toes; it’s on slippery smooth surfaces one belongs. With my eyes closed I will always know what I’ve seen. Whoever I’ve been outlines a familiar face —