Phantom Limbs


After that me and my good times

got evicted, eviscerated,

thrown from the moving car

tumbling into the ditch

meeting broken sticks and plastic bottles,

all ground into my face.

I sat up, body a broken beaver dam.


I dragged muscle and skin

to the top of the hill –

a dead goat of a body,

mind muddied with thirty years

of not wanting to make

a ripple in the pond.


And as another oblivion warship

hits sixty and transmutes blue into speed,

the only clouds in the sky

rip the sun form their stomachs

and blood pools down my face,

through the hair on my knees,


So I begin to pull the pieces of stick

from my arms, my face,

each blemish, each wooden mistake,

every stake that killed me.

I pull them out and hug them close,

holding each one like a phantom limb.  

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