Touched

When I feel moved and then say I am touched,

it’s another presence inside me I sense,

the dip of an oar, a canoe being launched.

I’m the oar, but I’m the water, and sense

at once initiation and response.

After you died, I felt you next to me,

and over months you entered gradually

into that lake and disappeared. Not gone,

but so internalized you’re not next to me.

You’re not the port, or the support; you’re done

being you, and my loneliness is so extreme

that I feel moved by almost anything,

even the forehead of a dog that leans

against my knee in an elevator, things

as brief as all the ways you would lean

against me getting a glass of water

at the sink. Everything touches me,

now that I’m not touched, but moved.