Sander Roscoe Wolff

Elephant Leg
by Sander Roscoe Wolff ©

There’s a part of you
I cannot see or touch.

In the dark, alone, I know
every curve of your body.
I could sculpt you from memory.
Each detail vivid in
my mind’s eye.

The boomerang nail on your baby toe.
This neck that takes to kissing.
I know the moment when your
hip becomes belly.
Just there.

But there’s a part of you I
cannot see or touch. Hidden, I want to
know it all the more.
Behind your eyes, inside
your heart, that essential
you, separate from this
fragile tissue hanging, draped, over bone.

I watch you move when
you’re not looking.
Standing, your feet turned in.
Twisting the end of your hair while thinking.
Asleep, I know your breathing.
You hold the morning cup like a chalice.
Little lines around your eyes deepen sometimes.

These things are pieces of a whole I ache to know.
This elephant leg obscured by sightless eyes can
be anything. Groping blindly toward
the totality of you, revealed in fits and starts.

This life of mine no longer turned inward.
Every day I have new discoveries to make.

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