Ambiguous Loss*

*term given by psychiatrists to describe the emotional state of those who do not know whether 
their lost loved ones are dead or alive—The New Yorker, January 16, 2023 

For starters, the missing cat. 
Soon enough, high school pals, 
college boyfriends, harmless 
rivals, that beloved professor 
you thought you’d never forget, 
glasses strung on a cord around 
her neck, that imposing gaze. 
The world stretches out, pulled 
taut, investigated, penetrated, 
pummeled, and parched, 
and you’re forced to behold, 
beyond the backyard 
and distant border, unsettling 
images of hordes foraging 
for food in the desert, bending 
over the burning earth in desperate 
prayerful attendance. You must 
witness, as well, the young mothers, 
babies strapped to their backs, 
some treading water, others 
sliding down muddy banks. 
Seeking asylum, they’re briefly 
tented and tended by others— 
kinsmen, natives, even a few traders— 
before moving toward that boundless 
wall. The wall is real, of course. 
Beyond it is what we cannot know. 
Or know what finally happened to: 
cousins, allies, colleagues, multitudes 
of distraught strangers seeking 
kith and kin. Forensics forever 
beats its head against that cold concrete, 
searching for DNA, examining the fragile 
toys strewn about the scrapyards of our lives, 
riffling through stacks of inventory, 
always encountering, oh yes indeed, 
a stunning halt to retrieval.