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"Fonseca's Head"
Mounted on my wall
is the head of a man
whose head has left him.
I have lost his grainy torso,
his feet that once were shoes like mine,
his hairy back that must have worn a shirt that day.
I imagine his hands to be long
and slim-fingered, built
for a piano that I'm sure they never touched.
All I have is his head,
his receding hairline,
his short and rough-hewn beard,
white-rimmed glasses unable to mask
his darting brow,
nose pointed and sloped,
equal like an isosceles,
his lips pursed
above a thin and hairy neck.
That is our shared frailty,
what makes us common;
our weakest link in the interlocking chain
we call our body.
The second weakest is the wrist
for when they captured him
and tortured him,
and tore him limb from limb,
mind from soul,
crime from punishments,
they displayed his severed pieces
as a testimony
to what they thought they had destroyed:
two hands which, together, had committed
the crime of revolution
and a dream-filled head that spread its word.
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An Alchemy of Words
PoetryA collection of my poems, both old and new. Notable Rankings: 1 in #poetsofwattpad (2021-06-01) 1 in #poetryclub (2021-06-01) 1 in #poetrycommunity (2021-06-18) 1 in #slampoetry (2022-04-13) 1 in #wattpadpoets (2022-04-13) 1 in #wattpadpoet (2022-04...
