The Hare I Miss

An Arctic hare catches 
in the edges of my vision. 
The haunches are strong, wired 
for leaps of gravity-defying logic. 
That’s how I know it isn’t just any old 
Lepus but the part of you we have somehow 
mislaid. In it, I glimpse your semantic grace. 
I touch my hand to your face, wishing I could cradle 
your diminished temporal lobe. If I try to view 
the hare straight on, to describe the quiver 
of nose and light-dashed whiskers, my eyes sting 
until it evaporates. When you first confessed 
to the growing gap, I pictured icecaps shrinking. 
Now I see your liquifying memories as elusive 
and alive, but turning wild. It soothes me to imagine 
them fleeting around your brain, thwarting attempts 
to corral them into speech or recognition.
Sometimes, your lips draw back and you emit 
an unexpected sound. Occasionally, you achieve 
a soft, sibilant-tailed “Ye-ess.”
I hold my breath as the hare halts, ears twitching 
beneath the shelter of your palms.