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.