They say
it will get better.
Time heals all wounds.
But my pain
doesn’t let up—
like the phantom pain
of a missing limb,
so is the pain
of a child
gone missing.

You don’t have to cut
a ribbon.
You don’t have to run
a marathon.
A meteorite could go astray
and crash,
a friend’s word
pierce
like a sword.

It’s as if
a pressure cooker bomb
exploded.
I lost my legs,
and a child
vanished.
My only
prosthetic
device
now,
this poem.

Life divided forever
into before and after.
It’s as if
a pressure cooker bomb
exploded.
I lost my legs
and my child
vanished.

Can you see the ponderosa’s
stark silhouette
since the lightning strike?