X As A Function Of Distance From Ignatz Poem by Monica Youn

(she opens the door)
(he is twelve inches
away) her fingers
still splayed across the
battened-down brass latch
of his sternum (she
closes the door) (he
is eight feet away)
her palm skids down the
banister clings to
the fluted globe of
the finial (he
is twenty-eight feet
away) (she opens
the door) the black air
is fast flowing and
cold (she closes the
door) she clutches her
thin intimacy
tight under her chin
and trips down the steps
(he is forty feet
away) the stiff wind
palpably stripping
his scent from her hair
from the numb fingers
she raises to her
mouth a cab pulls up
(she opens the door)
she bends the body
hitherto upright
(she closes the door)
the cracked brown vinyl
(he is ninety feet
away) biting the
backs of her thighs red
blotches suffusing
her cheeks I'm sorry
please stop she says (he
is four hundred feet
away) please stop the
cab (she opens the
door) the cab stops she
pushes a twenty
through the slot (he is
seven hundred feet
away) (she closes
the door) the husk of
something dry and light
falls to the sidewalk
crumbles away (she
opens the door) (he
is two feet away)
(she closes the door)