Dead Arm

The uninvited guests and intruders
that call in the night and rudely pluck us
from the body of sleep are legion.

The neighbours making-up inside,
their cats making war outside,
are but a few of the guest stars and plot lines
in the nocturnal soap opera
which we, the audience, are obliged to endure.

But to be woken in the night besides a disembodied arm,
some dismembered upper limb
is an alarm call which never fails to amuse.

A corpse remains, but its essence, its armness,
its ethereal mojo, has made off into the night.
Without leaving so much as note
to say where it has gone
or what time to expect it back.

It is deaf to my commands to rise
and shed its shroud of death,
and as I lift it from its steel slab,
and feel its limp cold flesh
I begin to speculate.

What was it that came in the night
and disconnected it cables and wires
from the sockets of the senses?

Or maybe, taking female form, it slipped silently from the bed
and is standing outside under the streetlamp,
its orange half-glow sweetly illuminating the fit of her jeans.
The dizzying altitude of her high-heeled boots.

Like a bird of prey, its return will be slow and silent.
But as assured as the healing onset of spring,
after winter’s bite.

It begins with a gentle scratching at the door.
Then the teeth of a key, lifting the pins
in the hasp of a lock.

Then just as a final piece of a jigsaw
drops satisfyingly into place to complete the picture,
the spectrum of colour and sensation is restored.
He hangs up his coat under the stairs
and casts his shoes into a corner.

Matthew Coombe