Wooden Parts

 

Are you like me an amputee?

Is all that’s left of you

here with me?

People may see us whole

but there’s an absence;

appendages no longer

in need of bandages.

 

Who sees what’s missing?

I’m not talking of lost limbs

but a vacancy of parts

unknown but no less grim,

draped beneath the fabrics

protected from the dusts;

shrines to gorgeous longings

once mistaken for our lusts.

 

But an absence of sentiment

doesn’t mean we no longer care

when the past can be as shrouded

as a loved yet tattered chair.

If in doubt lift the skirt, you’ll

find there’s nothing there.

True love leaves a stain,

a feeling presence oh so near;

partial memories reflected

in faces no longer here.

If all there was to risk

was only our own thick skin,

better be amongst the invisible

than by sorrow shrouded in.

 

If losing something dear

is merely a matter of ballast.

How much more is lost

to avoid becoming callous?

When age severs things:

people, places, or loves,

whatever are we to do

with what not having does?

 

When there’s more behind

than before us up ahead;

some folks lug their suitcases

even on their way to bed,

and every other room

they enter carrying trunks.

Ones with stickers

full of travels, ones

with initials full of junk.

 

I prefer to keep my losses

out from under wraps,

to let out a rook to look for land

on limbs or wings or flaps.

When what we’ve loved

has gone away we'll find

our way back to the wood

because even amongst

dead branches we'll be

welcomed back for good.

 

 

03/08/22