I got the brain. After the movie, they let me keep

the head, the hat. They kept the body, the padding,

the straw poking from the sleeves. I fired my agent

for that, the idiot. So here I am again, crucified

in some godforsaken cornfield, a disembodied head

facing east, stuck on the end of a pole. The farm kids

nail raggedy clothes to my cross-beam, to flap in the breeze

and scare the birds. I can see, think, dream, remember.

I watch the sunrise everyday, observe the changing

seasons. But I cannot speak or move. Not even

the crows take me seriously anymore. Don’t let anyone

tell you that having your fondest wish come true

will make you happy. You will always want 

another wish, and another. If only I could

turn myself around, just once, and see the sunset. 

 

 

This poem first appeared in The Journey Without: Charlotte Writers’ Club Anthology (2009).

Used here with the author’s permission.