Losses

Losses are not felt incidentally for my body being 
in constant withdrawals. 
I still stretch on tiptoe to reach things 
I grew into years ago.

As I accumulate memories,
it seems there is more missing
The stairs are missing.
A watch I wore once, now unlearned,
but I can still hear ancient voices in the attic.

I am meeting people who have sold their bodies
act like guilty children
and deny deny deny.

I am meeting the guilty children who were
unearthed from orphanages
into cruelties and then armies and then jails
and they still blush
when you tell them they've done good.

They still check the rooms for recording devices 
upon entering, entertaining old echoes. 
I check my quiet corners for signs of you.
I check my poems for signs of wounds.