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I’ll cradle my head in my lap like a bowl of pearls. I’m afraid of knife fights. In this way, I am a Dullahan or a rogue. I’ve asked to have my head removed by sword but no body obliges, no one ties my knots to bind them. So I work to build a mountain on which to speak softly. Walking from ear to center maybe this is the wrong plot for planning new ways to keep my head from leaving me and going over the ocean to find a new lover find a new place to rest dry lips. I hope that like Medusa, someday, someone will carry me in front of them too. Asking that I bargain marble pillars as an ecstatic occupation. They’ll hold handfuls of shield and hair and sword I can’t ask for, waving above us both like fire torch-light flash and hanging, cooing my red petal offerings like roses
and roses
and roses