Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.

(06-01-2026, 07:46 AM)matsunosuperfan Wrote:  Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.

I have to say:  well done.   It has the flow of maybe a Robert Frost poem.  My only question is:  is there any value in breaking it into 3-line stanzas.  It flows with the same energy continuously, and I could see it being one continuous block, never letting the reader catch breath.  Sorry if you wanted more intensive criticism, but I just don't have it.   (on rereading I question the phrase  "all that taffy people swallow"...)

(06-01-2026, 07:46 AM)matsunosuperfan Wrote:  Phantom Limb .....................brilliant title. achieves a rare sort of union with the text that follows

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry  ...........excellent use of metaphor. just the right words

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up  ...........'best’ needed? Also, are there “losts” necessary?
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care  ...........do they shoot dogs? or only horses?

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind  ...........excellent metaphor, at one with the title and I like how the poem loops back to it in the end,
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,  ..... fewer words here would be better 

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be surprised. 
The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.  ........ends on a high (or low, in the context of the poem)

Thanks for posting.
Purple: patch. excellent.
green: could be better (not to be misinterpreted as 'fully sick')

(06-05-2026, 07:09 AM)Bruce V Wrote:  

(06-01-2026, 07:46 AM)matsunosuperfan Wrote:  Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.

I have to say:  well done.   It has the flow of maybe a Robert Frost poem.  My only question is:  is there any value in breaking it into 3-line stanzas.  It flows with the same energy continuously, and I could see it being one continuous block, never letting the reader catch breath.  Sorry if you wanted more intensive criticism, but I just don't have it.   (on rereading I question the phrase  "all that taffy people swallow"...)

Much appreciated Bruce, thank you for reading. I actually prefer to compose these days in stichic blocks but people have been getting on me to use more stanzas and intentional line breaks and such. So nice to have a vote for the 'graph <3

---

(06-05-2026, 07:34 AM)busker Wrote:  

(06-01-2026, 07:46 AM)matsunosuperfan Wrote:  Phantom Limb .....................brilliant title. achieves a rare sort of union with the text that follows

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry  ...........excellent use of metaphor. just the right words

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up  ...........'best’ needed? Also, are there “losts” necessary?
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care  ...........do they shoot dogs? or only horses?

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind  ...........excellent metaphor, at one with the title and I like how the poem loops back to it in the end,
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,  ..... fewer words here would be better 

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be surprised. 
The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.  ........ends on a high (or low, in the context of the poem)

Thanks for posting.
Purple: patch. excellent.
green: could be better (not to be misinterpreted as 'fully sick')

Many thanks Busker; I appreciate the line-by-line reading. I think the dog section and some of what follows could be made more shimmery or provocative somehow. Hadn't thought about the shooting being applied to the dog directly either, but now I can't unsee it - thanks for pointing that out! 

Have tried a few redrafts of this so far and nothing sticks. Maybe just add by subtraction at this point...