Yesterday, 07:46 AM
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 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.