There are ghosts at the table
Whose names are never spoken,
Not taken from us by God
But by promises broken
Uncle, no longer Uncle
Brother, no longer brother
Son, no longer son,
We shut our eyes and pretend
They are no longer with us.
They have gone, we reason
To the place of what once was
But like amputees who
Feel the touch of a severed arm,
The ghosts remain our flesh,
Their seats at the table warm.
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