Tuesday, September 28, 2010
What a muse is: (the milliner’s wife had a head
in precisely the shape of perfect): it can be a head.
The gambler, less valuables, rummaging for an end,
a body part anted in order to play on, bet a head.
A student prostitutes to raise rent and children. Off
herself? Perhaps--if life’s a habit given up to get ahead.
A mother labors nine hours for her stillbirth. She insists
on a photograph: her hands cup the blue, the infant head.
God: I look out, some parts look earth, I make them earth.
Some parts scream ocean—ocean. It’s not art if you think ahead.
A child, come to cheer the executioner, stoops to save a thing
from the crowd’s malevolent shuffle. It is not a head.
Posted by kirsten at 5:55 PM