I wrote a poem today about your hands—
it isn’t because I miss them.
I was only thinking about the way they work.
Someone said that Wordsworth said a poem
is the gathering of feelings when you aren’t
feeling them anymore. Someone was paraphrasing.
I can’t find the quote. And I’m not sure I ever
stop feeling anything. I stop reaching out
(for your hands) and I stop talking about it,
and that seems close enough.
When I let you in I forgot
how to let you out again. Why
not stay? There’s vacancy
in my heart—a lodge that never
gets full. Always, another door appears
and always, I open it, and always,
it seems to get stuck that way.
The hotel of my heart needs some
reconstruction. And maybe
a good locksmith.
You do that kind of work, sometimes,
(with your hands) and maybe that’s why I thought
that I needed you.
Sara Iacovelli hails from New York City but lives in Colorado, where she is getting her M.A. in Comparative Literature at CU-Boulder. She studies and translates Japanese and Italian literatures, and writes poetry and essays in English.