Trace
When I disappeared, Easter had passed.
My right side vanished first, lost form
and feeling early on; less phantom limb,
more absent hand, foot, arm, leg.
Hadn’t parts of me always been coming
and going; fading in certain light,
becoming whole in darkened rooms?
I could not think outside the box
that was a bed, could not raise my half
a head, but placed a map above my face
to wonder where I might have gone.
I followed contour lines with my eye.
Others joined the search but left
the ditches and long grass alone.
There are moments, after dark,
when I’m glad I am no longer here,
except my lung still fills with air;
lifts, inside a magician’s hat.