The black hat

There’s no forgiveness in this scalpel
scoring my forehead.
I’m a pumpkin shell carefully, firmly
sliced open,
the sound inside my head
like a tearing,
a blackbird scratching through dry leaves.

The blade passes my eyes
and your stetson floats by.
One-way glass!
How bizarre that I should be here
under an artificial sun,
opened on a table,
and you should stroll by
shut out
on a day full of April.

It’s like a terrible secret.
I can see you
but you can’t see me.
My darling I’m here!
I’m here!

My knight in black helmet
is outside the castle.
And I cannot let down my hair!

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