Footsteps like a djembe drum come
louder toward my back as I sit here
day-drunk and dreaming at the kitchen table.
With one vacuum-suck of air by my tender right ear,
the exquisitely whetted blade states its grand purpose
in such a lopping: My solitary head from my neck once
familiar and happily wed, now divorced. No recourse.
No legal term for decapitation.
I’m struck again by the dizzying view of this room
upside down and sideways yet;
the Tiffany chandelier now some flower blooming from
the pale ivory floor-ceiling.
My vision dims as the furniture spins, and
I realize soon all will be dark save for the moon
whose face shines its own mockery.
There are days I slowly work the seeds of a phrase, a word,
a silvery image maybe and let them sit in the soil of my mind
until I recognize the tickle of a tendril reaching out
for more words, more light.
Only when I finally write it into existence
do I hear the assassin’s steps (my own now),
and see my weapon ready. The executioner has my face.
I sever the bone, click save, and watch it bleed.
