LOSSES

In time the missing limb stops throbbing;
the absent hand stops reaching out for cups
and keys and flecks of lint;
the lost foot stops its tapping.
Slowly the mind unlearns nerve ends,
learns to ignore what in this world
is impractical: an ideal finger, hand,
or foot, the insubstantial twinge of wings
we sometimes feel beyond our shoulders,
or the vestigial tail that in a drowse
of alcohol or carelessness
wags its full and shaggy length.

The dead, too, finally give up
their place at the table,
surrender their side of the bed,
stop insisting on present tense.
They come less and less often
to the shaded room,
speak less frequently in dreams.
If sometimes we hear ourselves talking
with their voices, find their eyes
in our mirrors, their hands
at the ends of our wrists,
we shrug in a way not entirely our own
and go on.

~Neal Bowers