Men speak of phantom sensations where once were limbs
That severed are no more, but may prick or throb no less than
When they were; as dreams awaken distant pasts and place us
In a time long gone
And long forgotten.
I do remember in your kitchen, sitting round, a conversation –
Ten thousand of them through the years, that knitted something
Of a family I belonged to.
And often wonder whether, how, a heart can too have phantom parts
That seem to only echo within some severed, hollow chamber,
As though we were, still,
As I remember.