On Waking To Find My Arm Asleep
Like a portent of Freuds morbid wish,
this morning I meet death first hand
as up and down this leaden span,
torpor, like a poison, drips.
All flesh! No bone, no nerve, no gland
inhabit this wan, phantom ship.
How vain the hope to clutch or grip
or splay phalanges like a fan.
Assure me, Limb, of ownership!
Let brain and will restore command,
let blood run tingling in like sand
from shoulder knob to fingertip.
If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Sloat would be pleased to hear from you.