Monday, April 7

Shrunken Heads

Who believed the toads that fell,
from his lips?
Provincial parasites in
dilating dystopias,
he whispers—they writhe;
he simpers—they sigh.

And she—
diamonds when she speaks,
pearls when she weeps,
petals when she smiles, and all the while
malachite whorls through a skull forged
for phrenology.

Smooth here, stone there—
fingers probe most secret framework,
scaffolding drafted by destiny.
Bump, lump . . . jump to the whys—
Why me? Why he? Why we?
Let it be.

We shrink: tiny teeth, deflating eyes, contracting tongues,
shrunken heads
spouting toads,
sparking diamonds,
on shoulders far too wide.

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