Head Less Pitted Plums Poem by James McLain

The report was loud I must look dazed.
It was not lightning, I dealt it, thoughts dumb.
She is still hammered, blind as a bat.
The room is wrecked, legs hang here and
there, an odd arm, sticks out.
No head can be seen, the chain saw has died
leaving a coughing breath in it's sleep.
She weeps in the corner, no shirt in bare feet
her chest hugging knees, pushed deep.
The toys from the night before hang, in different
directions, from she who is blind, soul to strike.
Her hands each hold spikes, thorns leek from mouth
one lip dripps, in pain it seems.
I take all of this in, As her great, great grandmother
takes me to bed, upon her wrinkled plums I sleep.