Tender Spots

The tongue of my heart
probes the space where you were,
like an empty tooth socket.
And the fingers of my heart
press on that spot over and over,
unconsciously seeking to feel
the bruised tenderness there,
where a thousand times a day
I said to you, “Sweetheart,
sweetheart…” Where
there is pain, there is life.
And your death will take
some getting used to.

© Anne Benvenuti 2004
Published in We’Moon Calendar, Mother Tongue Ink: 2006

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