I can still wiggle the fingers

on my third arm, a rare five-leafed clover.

It sprouts from my right shoulder and

overlaps with my first one.

Since I died again in molten emerald

it dropped two places and became ghostly.

But I can still wiggle the fingers.

It even waves now and again when

the past shoves sweet ectoplasm into

my ears.

My arm waves to the shrill sound

of a new siren now.

Arms four, five, and six have since lost feeling.

Lower than ghosts, but more real than

arm one.

Even now, it contorts in envious agony.

Pebbles of milky jade pummel its flesh,

the welts are shallow.

It can only pay tribute to its new siren

and hope for amity rather than charity.