For the Woman Alone

by Ashley Inguanta

You stand in the kitchen, bare,
your body turned away, your hands busy,
maybe cutting cabbage, a pear.

I can see your legs, the space between–
but the whole of you is here.

I am alone on most nights, and so are you.
On some nights, I touch myself.
On these nights your body, too, opens.

To understand you would be one thing,
to stand next to you would be another.
I am a lonely woman who longs for woman

and so are you, and the way you stand near the counter
brings me peace. The world has ended.
This is the aftermath–your bare body,
my longing to touch.

You hold my hand, walk me out of where I am,
and then I am far from you again, but you still hold and hold.

My mouth is a wish
and the space between your legs is a folded ocean,
a book loosely opened.

Our arms are miles, stretched.

When I eat from my garden
you slice the harvest,
close your eyes, dream.

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