I blinked and no more fingertips. All hand lines, palm
and tendons all the way down the finger, first digit
second digit, and then empty air. I could still grab things,
full fisted, but couldn’t feel the grooved finger music, that
vibrational conversation we have with guitars and
doorknobs. It may have happened like falling in love,
a little then all at once, with dry mouth and
ringing ears, the ocean gulping the space around
claustrophobia swallow swallow
will the rest of me fade away too?
I invested in some gloves. Opera gloves, thin cotton
gloves, soft woolen gloves with sticky traction fingers.
There aren’t people to go to with these problems of
lightness, of numbness of lack. They blink
and stutter and connect the dots, this
phenomenon of absence. No.
Better to find flesh paint, get the mixing tray
wait for the air and the deadness to reach past the elbows,
but the disappearing wasn’t linear this way, it was,
so cruelly, sensitivity centered. The earlobes
and the tip of the tongue, the clitoris and the arch
of the foot. The space ate away at me,
an edible woman becoming empty.
[This poem is a brief investigation into a character of mine named Felicity. She’s disappearing. Thanks for reading. Also: Thanks to Julien Blundell (fellow poet magician) for the writing prompt of “I blinked” which inspired my writing.
Love from Boulder,