When I Chopped Off My Head

author’s note:

Another spill.  Another bottle.


WHEN I CHOPPED OFF MY HEAD

Stuck in the rut
of my own tiresome thoughts
in desperation, I chopped off my head.

Only to find that bean rolling after me
everywhere I went.
Try as I might, I could not lose my head.
I can still hear that mouth in its brain
rambling on and on and on.

But with that head off my neck
I can now hear my heart
much more clearly.

And I shouldn’t try
to disown my head anyway—
after all, it has many positive uses.
For instance:

The head helps me edit my poetry—
the head takes the raw milk
spilled from my sloppy heart
and puts that sustenance into little bottles
for readers to drink any time any place.

But when I use my head in that way
I first put that poll on a tall pole
because I need a higher perspective.

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