Losing my head

Have you ever lost your head?
I mean really lost it?

To follow a ghost in the street
Whose hips sway under an overcoat
To the rhythm of grocery bags
As she ducks into a vestibule
Of an apartment building on Via Veneto
And you find yourself cold and soaked
And you don’t remember how you got there?

Or while eating a tangerine
To swallow its juice and to
Drown in the fire dance of the
Veiled women who sense their world
And to open your eyes to only
The pocked rind in your hand?

Or while looking at the sky
Imagining what it’s like to
Travel on a beam of light
Like a latter-day Einstein
Wild wind in your hair
Only to look down and see the
Ashes of your fire?

I have never in my life lost my head
Like that



  1. Now this is the kind of twist ending I can get behind. You know how to take us to a precipice and drop us off a cliff even as we still expect to soar. Yet the poem’s very nature is kind and compassionate, a poem of communal longing. We need less M. Night Shyamalan and more Marya.

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