Does it stir inside your spine?
A somatic signal,
A sub-vibration,
Felt but not heard
And triggered by nothing?
You’ll die without understanding it.
And how could you?
You’ve never seen the grave in Newark
That shrouds your siblings,
Never seen that it bears the name
Of an infant brother you never met,
Written but not uttered
Like a whisper to deaf ears.
Telepathy is fiction,
But phantom pain is real.
It’s static electricity.
It travels through the air
And activates the nerves,
Like the soft crackle of an old TV
Grazed by fingertips.
Did you hear that static
In the lowest tones
Of your mother’s voice?
It lived between her words
And thrived inside them,
A neurochemical petri dish
Of hushed grief.
And when your own son died,
Did you feel it then?
When you walked at night,
Was there a faint recognition
Of a familiar figure,
Standing just outside your peripheral
And vanishing as you turned to look?
I’ve never asked my father
About his brother.
I pulled my hand from the static
When I felt it myself.
I allowed it to fester,
Rejuvenated and nourished
By the space between us.
I think I’ll die without understanding.
And how could I?
I’ve never seen the grave in Newark
Of the uncle I never met,
His name engraved on that stone
Like a letter to a blind man.
I feel it as I exhale into night air.
A familiar shape dancing
At the edge of my vision,
Dashing away as I squint to see it.
Phantom limbs augment me
As they did you.
They’re quiet parasites,
Felt but not heard,
Like low, deep frequencies.
