This death will not haunt

our house like the one before.

This loss will not make me

sob like a wrung washcloth.

This uncle will not come back

as anything that breathes,

leaf or limping dog. In fact,

the blessing of it. Locked eyes

of my folks as the casket is lifted,

members of the same club

with no card to carry. What they share

now: how it feels to be alive

with one less limb, the empty

sound a socket makes

when the wind whistles through.