You knew Frida’s lover,
narrow aperture,
mock orange.
A few empty squares remain:
Asian palm,
Artemis’ victim,
stunning surprise.
There are other blank squares since you died.
Tongue probes soft spaces in my mouth,
searched for missing teeth,.
I count toes and fingers,
wonder if there are amputations
I have not yet found,
some internal organ, perhaps,
a sense or two.
The birthdays, your favourite gelato place –
these are the easy ones.
The phone calls I don’t make are harder,
hanging in the air around my head.
I have lost “daughter”.
I pick up your book, search for
the blanks, filling them in,
one by one.
