you don't need a face to see the light
you don't need a face to see the light
(and other perks of attempted suicide)
Loaded and lonely,
Alan pitched a rifle beneath his chin, fired,
missed his head (How do you miss your friggin' head?)
and blew his face clean off.
It draped over the rifle
like a flesh tent,
a tapestry of scalp and cartilage.
Defiant and intact, his head
bobbed like a buoy
shiny, crimson and sticky
in a blood river.
Which prayers must he have uttered to a vengeful God?
What promises screamed?
Multiple surgeries, reattached remnants.
Scraps of face, pieced like a quilt.
Now, Alan looks like the ghost of
some Gary Oldman character
whose face was gnawed by a wild boar.
He collects disability and squeamish stares.
Works an odd job here and there.
Keeps to himself, mostly.
Occasionally though, he lands in a bar,
wearing a dog collar, throws his head back and gurgles at the moon.
Like a parlor trick,
I've seen Alan
stick a nail in his mouth
use his tongue like a grommet tool,
and shove the nail back out his nose orifice.
And yeah, he still drinks.
It's just his swallow that's changed.
Mary
Vote for this poem
you don't need a face to see the light
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