Phantom Limb (v5)

[matsunosuperfan]

Phantom Limb

I text your mom more
than I should—twice as much,
she swears, as her daughter ever did.
Neither of us believes in Heaven,
second chances, all that taffy people
swallow after grief, the flaccid word. It reeks
of mildewed flowers, baby’s breath, a loose thumb
wrapped in drug store gauze: Sorry for your loss.
I lost my hat, I lost my phone, I lost 
my best friend. Language throws its hands up 
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We work hard
not to look it in the eyes, like putting down
a Doberman. The song you’d hum in German
while her dense bulk pulled you by the rope
past gleaming combs of beach. Does it hurt,
I ask your mom, whose name
I do not know, when the question mark
spits out the little dot? Maybe questions are like lizards
and can let their limbs fall off at will
to get away from hawks—maybe it’s like how a fox,
caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately
knows the only way to live
is to chew straight through the bone.
We discussed it over ossobuco
chased with thumbs of sherry. You tied a cherry stem
into a knot inside your mouth. I said
I could never—even in desperation,
who can cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. That hunger for the end of pain
could make the pain taste sweet. The dog lives
with your mother now, who says she hates the ocean.
She takes her every day. We never use your name.

previous (4th) draft - 

Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should—twice as much,
she swears, as her daughter ever did. Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people swallow
after grief, that flaccid act of speech. It reeks
of mildewed flowers, baby’s breath, a loose thumb
wrapped in drug store gauze: Sorry for your loss.
I lost my hat, I lost my phone, 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. The song about Finding the light
you’d hum in German while her dense bulk pulled you by the rope
past gleaming combs of beach. Does it hurt, I ask your mom,
whose name I do not know, when the question mark spits out
the little dot? Does it take special effort, or like heaven
breached the battlefield, do the most graphic wounds find a way to heal
themselves? Maybe questions are like lizards
and can let their limbs fall off at will to get away
from hawks—maybe it’s like how a fox, caught between
abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands the only way to live
is to chew straight through the bone. We discussed it
over ossobuco chased with thumbs of sherry. You tied a cherry stem
into a knot inside your mouth. I insisted I could
never—even in desperation, who can bring themselves
to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be surprised. That hunger
for the end of pain could make the pain taste sweet. The dog lives
with your mother now, who says she hates the ocean.
She takes her every day. We never use your name.

 

3rd draft for ref -

Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should—twice as much,
she swears, as her daughter ever did. Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people swallow
after grief, which remains
a soggy, flaccid word. It reeks of mildewed flowers, baby’s breath,
a loose thumb wrapped in drug store gauze: Sorry for your loss.
I lost my hat, I lost my phone, 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. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or do some stems trim themselves?
Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks, the way a fox, caught between
abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands the only way to live
is to chew straight through the bone. We discussed it over osso bucco,
shot glasses of sherry. You tied a cherry stem into a knot
inside your mouth. 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.

and 2nd draft, FWIW - 
Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should—twice
as much, she swears, as her daughter ever did.
Neither of us believes in Heaven, second chances,

all that taffy people swallow after grief, which remains
a soggy, flaccid word. It reeks of mildewed flowers, baby’s
breath, avulsions wrapped in drug store gauze:

Sorry for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my phone, 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. But how
Does it hurt, I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change 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. You had twirled your tongue around
the concept over our last coffee. 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.