prosthetic 

i go to the mountain for clay.
hand shovel. a hole in my shoe.
i have decided to make myself
a new head. i have spent long enough
with this one. i want a skull built
to hold water. i want eyes glazed pearl. 
i am going to fire it in the secret basement. 
watch it come into this world
through heat & light. i am not 
sure yet what i plan to do with
the old head. maybe i will just
plant it where i found the clay. 
another option might be
filling it with dimes & quarters
on an end table by the front door. 
of course i could go the monster route.
i could place the new head on top
of the old one. i have always been
a lover of secrets. i could remove it
only when i needed to remember something
like the texture of blood or the scent
of a car crash. i have a fear that i have
done this whole process before & 
trained myself to forget. that maybe
if i removed this head i would find 
dozens of others. ones with bees
& ones that rattle like rain sticks.
i have heard legends of people
who prune. who dig themselves apart
to the stem. i am not one of those people.
instead, i am a nesting doll's mother.
there is always a peach pit in my guts
where i harbor my whole world.
the new face is gorgeous. is perfect.
i do not believe in renewal. this is 
something else. i try the head on 
while the clay is still wet. run out wild
into the plum-throat night. if i forget this
will you promise not to remind me?
let me believe i never lost anything
just for now.