Husk, Pluck, Comb.

Location

 

Husk, Pluck, Comb.

At some point I husk myself.

Peel back green leaves and

shimmy out my hair,

ready to share a few kernels of goodness.



I act as a martyr.

Slow roasted, broken in half

Skewed and buttered up

to be devoured



Eventually all the gold bits

get plucked or popped,

leaving a graveyard of

catacomb pocked cobs.



Only then are my naïve leaves

gathered and carefully reassembled.

Knotted joints morph into a makeshift body

and loose hairs comb back into a stringy braid.



Shaped into a crisp doll

I sleep in the cellar,

A dried out memory

for my mother.

 
This poem is about: 
Me

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