We return to nothingness
from which we grew up out of,
frothing from the pot of maybe,
and our return melts back in,
bits of this, that, arms, medals
on those arms, fingers metal
in the steel sockets, shining
up at you, stainless under
upturned sleeves, folded with
the pins in them we won in war,
little steel slivers caught now,
kinds of epaulettes maybe
batteries where shoulders were,
walking side to side up and down
as if the calves couldn’t coax
themselves into a dance ever.
You want to hold out your hand
to her, mother or daughter, but
it won’t go, it can’t hold anymore,
no force will lift it up into grasp.
Ok, now, we are back home, lit
up in the chair in front of the TV
on the only comfortable upholder
of a body left in the room.
She doesn’t want to look at us,
me. She tells me she can’t look
because she’ll want to shoot up
all the straw babies and babblers.
