Lord Nelson's hand, blasted off by musket-fire at Tenerife, stayed clutched into a fist in the gap below his stump, the unbeholdable fingers stabbing their ever-longer nails into his palm. Daily in the amputated place the gone fingers cut deeper into the gone & welted skin. If a hand can outlast its shearing-off & still inflict its scratch & cramp, he thought, how much more must the soul go on when the whole body's a phantom body, rid of all but its spirit's fist-kinks & stabs?
Copyright © 2005 by Bruce Beasley. From Lord Brain. Reprinted with permission of the University of Georgia Press.