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'After careful study and due deliberation it is my opinion the head remains conscious for one minute and a half after decapitation.'
-Dr. Dassy d'Estaing,1883
The ax whistled down, my head
tumbled off, twirled through the air, landed
between my wife’s ankles. I looked up
her skirt: one last glimpse at those alabaster
chimneys. What good will the word “thigh” do me
where I’m going, I wondered, as I stared
at the red door of her panties, the brass knocker
that I installed one rainy morning
when we were young and in love. Good-bye
little red door I used to walk through
after a long day at the office and say, “honey,
I’m homeopathic.” I wanted to apply
arrivederci lipstick, plant one last kiss
on the soil, hope it bloomed into something
useful, then Janey snatched me up by the hair,
yelling “the putty’s not so silly anymore,
is it, mister marmalade? ” The last thing
I remember: being punted high through the air,
a squirrel squinting on a tree trunk,
the house getting smaller, a blue bird
Jeffrey McDaniel
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