bringing out all the mothering in women who wanted to fix dinner for you and those who wanted to fix what was a little to the right of the stump. How many poems about a vet with his leg blown off could be about a half dozen others, be about strangers? Many, I hope readers think. You said when you felt nothing in your right leg and saw the left on the other side of the road, you began to feel angry. One is fair. But two, you were railing, is too much. The copter pilot took the leg and put it under the blanket, gave you a Marlboro, said it would be OK, the way one tucks a baby in with a lullaby or buries a stillborn. You remembered his blue eyes, you said, your own, my bluest. When you heard of the bad cells spreading, you must, again, have thought, It’s over, must have felt, as I did, Unfair, too soon.