The dull ache of the missing part you know
cannot be hurting makes you turn; it makes
you look—you stretch a hand to touch—it takes
your breath and reason—where the fuck d’ it go?
The place it ought to be in bed is cold.
Controlling movement of the phantom limb
is crucial: practice is the only course,
acceptance of your only partial loss,
acceptance of design disguised as whim,
accepting this is history foretold.
That isn’t breeze, that gentle tug that caught
your hair, the thought that something touched or passed you.
I felt it, too. It’s more than something thought.
It’s physically impossible. It’s true.