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An amputated leg, they say, tingles,
an ear long deaf still jangles the brain:
the body asserts the integrity of its parts,
and this body, at odd hours, years
as if his hand had passed my shoulder,
as if snores rose above the downturned book.
Now the mockingbird at the mulberry
and its mate on the fence pretend they’re crows,
and their caws contend with the noise in my bones
as I stand at the window washing up:
one plate, one fork, one mended cup.
Copyright 1996 Sandy Solomon
First published in Pears, Lake, Sun by University of Pittsburgh Press (1996, o.p.). Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.