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, yearns
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.