Completing the Outfit
I used to wish you'd put your hands just so
about my waist, spanning me here and here,
encircling me in love and trust; although
you never knew I cherished the idea.
A small thing. Doesn't matter. Time is gone.
Your hands, so square and kind, don't speak to me.
My waist has grown quite used to life alone.
My breathing's calm. My heart goes quietly.
I find, these days, I like to wear a belt;
I bear it like your touch around the core.
It keeps me safe. Recently I felt
I had to tighten it. I think it's more
than reassurance in well-seasoned leather;
it may be all that's holding me together.
If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be
pleased to hear from you.