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.