Humpty

Humpty

That afternoon he'd been stripped

not so much like a banana or an antique

chair, but

quite like some kind of ice

sculpture, having yet the chain-saw grooves

to prove the artist's process—

fresh from the freezer, unsheeted

for show…

He was now gathering

into a puddle

under his own feet

and the hors d'vours were warming

(infinitesimal buzzing of flies,

cheese dark'ning ever-so-slightly)

Rot's a process like stripping

only rather than disambiguation

rotting obscures…

like a peach in the

windowsill, forgotten and now

no longer a peach

but a hard lump of a sow's

severed ear

not hearing, of course,

but also never to be a silk

purse

Whether he was coming clear

or perhaps growing mold

he was not certain,

though he knew he was

in control neither of their eyes

nor curious hands

The innocent are always intrigued

toward tactile amusements,

groping and fondling

the frosty surface, leaving

little fingerprint windows to the

soul

but curiosity, as they say, kills

catastrophically

beatifically

in a swirl of red,

and he knew as the world tilted

it was he himself askew

and not the snot-nosed toddler in the smart

blazer, his mum releasing only one

brief cry before

the shattering moment, the tremble

of cocktail sauce simultaneously flipped

and letting bright droplets…

At their feet,

his integrity scattered into gritty

stones

like safety glass or human teeth

on the floorboard of the fatal

automobile accident beneath

the still-bleeding passenger,

he knew even the Jaws of Life

could not speak the pieces back into what

he'd dreamed himself to be.