Fox-Hunting
Michelle Greenblatt
Last night my head slipped
off my shoulders after I flashed
another one of those placid-I-don’t-
mean-it smiles at some questioning
face of a family member
or friend. They weren’t
shocked; it had happened
before.
I carried my head to the pissed
on walls of the alley, the spat
on floors—& a punctured
arm of a junkie rolled out behind
a row of silver garbage cans.
I stuck my head between the receptacles...certain
it was he this time. So certain.
But it was just an arm...& remembering an old lover’s
saliva hissing at me from every gutter cut between
Miami to Northeast Broward, searching
every dopehouse until I screamed at the wine
dripping down my shirt—
I didn’t realize I’d gone fox-hunting with a container
of bleach swirling with pink which was
not mine because it was no longer his
unless you count hoarding
for self-preservation (in other words, blackmail)
Finally I’d sewn my head
back on my shoulders but I’d had to pay
for the thread with my brain. 'I’ll see you later,'
I whispered,&reached into my skull.
7.19-20.2005
