With the hands
Absence clusters love into fingers
that with infinite care hold the belonging, the photo,
the remains found under the salt of the Atacama.
And this homeless love, having lost shelter in the beloved’s body,
is brought through the tenderness of the hands
to the traces, to the shadows, to the silhouettes.
And it’s as if the dead are cradled between fingers
bestowed of company in their last solitude.
And it’s as if the dead are coddled between fingers
that calm the throbbing of fever,
caressing with fingertips
their aching gulfs.
Conversing with silence,
pronouncing pending affections.
Loving with the hands what cannot be touched.