After Our War

After our war, the dismembered bits
--all those pierced eyes, ear slivers, jaw splinters
gouged lips, odd tibias, skin flaps, and toes-
came squinting, wobbling, jabbering back.
The genitals, of course, were the most bizarre,
inching along the roads like glowworms and slugs.
The living wanted them back, but good as new.
The dead, of course, had no use for them.
And the ghosts, the tens of thousands of abandoned souls
who had appeared like swamp fog in the city streets,
on the evening altars, and on the doorsills of cratered homes,
also had no use for scraps and bits
because, in their opinion, they looked good without them.
Since all things naturally return to their source,
these snags and tatters arrived, with immigrant uncertainty,
in the United States. It was almost home.
So, now, one can sometimes see a friend of a famous man talking
with an extra pair of lips glued and yammering on his check,
and this is why handshakes are often unpleasant,
why it is better, sometimes, not to look another in the eye,
why, at your daughter's breast thickens a hard keloidal scar.
After the way, with such Chesire cats grinning in our trees,
will the ancient tales still tell us new truths?
Will the myriad world surrender new metaphor?
After our war, how will love speak?