Issue 8 | Winter 2011

Close By

In finger reach I kept you—
as a small thing beginning,
your hair weaving
my hands to you,
your hands knitting my arms—
you were the beginning of growing,
laced into the gaps I had, and then
you were the how of growing:
out of my arms but still no further
from me than a finger. And then
you were unwinding, unraveling
and growing into everything that
opened and reached out to you,
even the things past where
I could point a finger to.

Filed under: Poetry