The Amputee for S. Micheal
The amputee lies awake in an invalid bed.
A cloud of tattered moths
arc and peck,
a smear of ghosts
on a hot bare bulb.
Dismembered kisses
trace shivery arcs
in blood light,
curved needles lace
pursed lips,
eyes trailing smoldering threads
drawing the wound closed.
Wing dust sputters
on the imprisoned tongue
as the amputee lies awake
in an invalid bed.
The memorable crowd of flesh,
a still animate ache
in lost limbs;
phantom twinges under a flat sheet
play little piggie in limbo
as the amputee lies awake
in an invalid bed
next to the empty sag
in the mattress.
The lopped torso is a ouija board
where the knocking spirit
spells out its cabala
in an alphabet
of unscratchable itches
as the amputee lies awake in an invalid bed.
Like the fist of the lost hand
that will never unclench,
the pins and needles
of an embrace
forever torn
prick the skin below the stumps,
writing
in invisible tattoos
songs of lamentation,
and swarms of angels
dance in time
to the flutter
of her telltale heart,
and sing her to her rest
as the amputee lies awake on her invalid bed.
