The Head Will Continue To Sing
When I feele a girle a sleepe
underneath her frock I peepe.
there to sport, and there to play,
Then I byte her like a flea;
and about I skip.
John Lyly’s “The Maydes Metamorphosis”
Mirror, beneath flecks of toothpaste,
a scratch on my cheek,
as if a toothpick, a common pin
was drawn down it. Fingers trace
two more whorls like flames
lapping up over my chin.
“You’d have woken up,
if someone did this to you.”
Another, fine as a wisp of smoke’s
by my nose. “It’s just your self-hatred.”
From cheekbone to chin and up once more,
“you hate yourself,” the crooked stroke
of some secret letter’s breaking,
“it’s not that unusual,” is breaking
over my face like a wave. “And you’ve
left the tap water running.”