Ona Gritz
Left, my bright half, gets all of it…
soft sharp prickly wet lined.
But press your head against my right shoulder,
I sense weight but no warmth. Your cheek,
to my right touch, stubble free,
whether or not you shave.
Under my right fingers your silver hair
holds no silk, nor can I feel it part
into single strands. I’ll tell you
how I know you in the dark.
Left whispers the details.
Right listens and believes.
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