But it wasn’t gelling. It just didn’t lead anywhere.
She turned the page again. A new lined page. Another start.
But back it came:
“Even though she’s lost her head, she still may have some
leaf”.
It remained there. Word for word. The head, the leaf, the
loss, the possibility.
She switched around the ‘still’ and ‘may’ but that didn’t do much.
Something about losing her head made her think of a severed ear at the start of an old David Lynch movie, something about
losing her head made her think of lines of police tape and sniffer dogs tearing
under the basement of a squat she once lived in, something about losing her
head made her think of people going off to asylums with names like Cherry Farm
and Sunnyside.
She put another line through it and another and another but
the lost head was very persistent. It wanted to be kept in the narrative but
she couldn’t think of a place for it. She couldn’t didn’t couldn’t think where
it could lead to.
There was a memory of a burnt out basement and the full moon
in her eyes.
There was a memory of sniffer dogs tearing under the
basement while a man in blue held different sized body-part bags tentatively in
his hands.
There was a memory of uniformed bodies, with guns on their
hips, running through her house and a distant sound of someone wailing someone
screaming.
She came back to the poem in the morning. The first thing
she did was get a big black TEXTA and slide it in bold across the sentence in
question. But the lost head and the leaf did not want to be replaced with a
story about an arm and a leg or Swedes taking over the Redhead Corporation and
offering dodgy matches that took seconds minutes hours to strike. She decided
on another coffee. Triple shot out of a Scrabble cup. Letter distribution: L-4,
O-8, S-4, T-6 followed by H-2, E-12, A-9, D-4. L-O-S-T H-E-A-D.
She hadn’t thought up another theme, she hadn’t found a new
position, but the lost head would not disappear.
It remained there in the background. Word for word. The head
leaf loss possibility.
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