I stare down from up

on high, watching them

pose me into position—

they maneuver me so I sit on the floor,

my back against the wall,

holding my severed head

in my arms, cradling

it as one would a babe

suckling at the breast

That’s fine, they whisper,

grinning grimly at

the streaked blood on the walls,

as my mouth forms a lifeless O

of wonder, of

fascination.

Yes, oh yes, yes—

that’s

just

FINE.