Digitally
Most surprising of all were your hands; they never carried a fleck of dirt or dust. Your fingernails might have been painted by da Vinci, and when you curled your hand around a cup, your index finger protruded over the top like a blue heron down on her fishing-luck, but still wavering there over the liquid. I wouldn’t dare describe how it felt having the tips of your fingers touching my face. All that heat within you seared into my bone. The best harebrained schemes came that way—through your fingertips, or the tips of your toes. I remember once watching you brush our cat with your hand; your left, I think it was. What you discovered there unleashed something primal in our Trudytoo. First she was silent, then purred, then started digging her claws and arching her back, but suddenly she made these strange counterclockwise circles, chasing her tail as if into infinity; but then she settled again and curled herself into your lap as if she had always been there.
Marc Vincenz is a poet, fiction writer, artist, and musician. He has published twenty collections of poetry, including more recently, Einstein Fledermaus, The Little Book of Earthly Delights, A Brief Conversation with Consciousness, and The Pearl Diver of Irunmani, forthcoming with White Pine Press. He is publisher and editor of MadHat Press and publisher of New American Writing. He lives on a farm in rural western Massachusetts with his wife, Miriam, and their Australian Cobberdog, Emily Dickinson