Detached / Kathy Prescott

I dreamed I was decapitated,
all the while reminding myself
to relax my shoulders,
so as not to interfere
with the cutting.
Not so bad, really,
only the guy holding my hair
would describe where
the blade was heading,
being helpful.

The cutter - another gentleman
(historically correct, 
so preferably French)
did the work. Inch by inch
he made it to bone.
And I could tell, but it was not
that bad - just a little weird -
after countless birds prepared,
more Julia Child than
Mary, Queen of Scots.

I think we were standing
at the ocean - yes.
My body, left with
faculties and sight,
watched the fellow with
his sheathless sword stride
down the beach with my head,
swinging both.
No one said anything about me
being headless.

Surrounded by the
sounds of surf and
attracted by the smell,
I played at the edge
of the water. Seeing
small shells and creatures there,
I picked one up
and washed it off,
taking care not to spill over -
more Manet than Bergman, really.

Charmed, more than I ought
to have been (considering my plight)
by every aspect of the place -
grains of sand and vast
blue sky. I experienced the
scene as permanent -  
fleeting - not at all. A kind  
of odd sensation, really,
(more feeling than a thought)
like matter over mind.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

more Emily than Anne... or both, by turns.