Toe Head

Patrick Samuel

Bleach blonde, you first arrived red crackling in fireplace, hot
little Scorpios pft! pft! behind chain mail. Wearing that scratchy
duck sweater, put there to pose on the mantle, I come to learn
that you’ll run now at any time, ten white flashes. The
unclogging purr of a Q-Tip. A jar of antiseptic where the
barber keeps his combs was a blue Head never understood,
either: swiveled between two mirrors, shown the fade of its
backside, asked to nod along.