Conversations with a Glowing Head;
You are Afraid of What you Run From
First, cut a hole in the crown and
remove the top circle of skull.
Reach in and scoop out the fleshy pulp, the seeds,
until the rind of orange bone is eggshell thin;
with your knife, cut out two wide eyes and
inside place a candle;
the hollow features glow and
the head is silhouetted;
the scent of singed pumpkin.
Sit and talk with your head-hunting trophy,
the mystery of why you run from the
ghosts, the witches, and the
half-human, half-animal creatures;
jump into that mystery as if it is a
sea and you are a diver;
become surrounded by its ghastly anemones and
skeletal, bottom-dwelling fish.
See how you swim from Death,
even though Her salt is all around you, and
you can never evade Her.
The orange glow of your gourd nods sympathetically.
Continue, it seems to beckon with a
flicker of its eyes.
But to continue, you must stop, and the dark water
and the cold brine dissolves you until
you are nothing but seaweed and shrimp,
and then smaller and more insignificant,
grains of sand, bacteria.
The Head, its mouth askance,
takes a turn; it
tells you of the threshing,
where the pitchfork lofts the seeds and
the husks are like butterflies;
with bare feet the grain is trod,
and the devil is a farmer and
not a devil at all.
She takes those heavy kernels and
gives them a proper burial in the loam. And,
once the sun remerges from her watery grave,
vines and grasses will be coaxed from seeds,
and seeds will be coaxed from flowers;
scions to be threshed again
come late autumn.
Speaking of seeds, says the Head,
take care to plant the wet and stringy
orange matter that was my brain, my womb.
Otherwise who will you talk to
~Rachel Teferet, 10/31/11
A weird and Halloween inspired poem; hope you enjoyed! 🙂 Rachel