Dear Nobody,
                       We are the hands she left—
three fingers wire-bound and strapped
to a board, photographed. We mute
what the mind could not forget: names,
what he once said — can never be
taken back.

We held the braided arm, poured
carbolic acid, braced the embroidered arm, a shredding
hotel chair, watched the ceiling arms
                                            stare back like cracked lilies.
We once held a key made of hair, of needle turned twice
in the velour light of a hallway sprouting rooms,
                                                                once knew

door lacquer, the places skin digs in,
                     how to rip a suitcase full of paper.

What she gave us:
                                 tight grip of pen,
                                 her mouth, a perch on the dip
                                 of throat.