He hasn’t touched her all week.
Not a palm on the small of her back when they pushed
through an alley crowded with street vendors, or
a freckled arm pulling her closer in the dark.
They drove up to the top of this mountain so he could take pictures
of stars. She’s leaning into the cold metal of their rented Italian car,
searching for the boastful queen’s husband in the sky.
She can always find the crooked W of Cassiopeia. It’s the king – the leaning house,
a sideways pentagon whose name she never can remember – who eludes her.
He – her man, not the king – used to touch her without thinking.
He’d beat a rhythm on her knuckles when their fingers laced together,
tap her nose when she slept late in the mornings, zip her jacket
before they both walked out the door.
They’re still on the top of this mountain. He’s taking pictures of stars. She’s leaning
up against the car, now staring at the open splinter of the moon.