by Pavel Chichikov
One leg is a hollow shell
More muscular than your leg was
It leans against the bedside wall
Artificial as my voice is
To be thirteen with only one
The artificial one displayed –
What cancer to the growing bone
Has made them cut your step away?
Calm down, calm down you tell the mutt
I visit with – your father sits
In shadow, locks his features up,
We two seem calm – we hypocrites
Loud dismay we musn't show,
That part of us is severed too
And must be stifled lest it grow
Too grief-loud to be listened to
Lament, lament – the mind must live
In grievances the tongue reserves
To secrecy – if Lord of love
Why must the blameless suffer so?
Prosthetic cold stability
On every face – synthetic prayer
That seems indifferent perfectly –
How pale, how small of voice you are
Could cripple to a cripple be
And amputation understand
I would express identity
And heart dismembered take your hand
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
