Little Wooden Head

The monster makes the sea boil, God
opens the door of his face, fish
teeth terrible round about, belly
bones brass rafters where light
is darkness. Of all things, he
alone is made without fear, this swallower of boy,

this leviathan wherein wooden boy
finds himself among other God
forsaken things: the drowned he
never knew, cloudy fish
eyes looking for light,
sobs-- Job's rantings caught in belly

of beast. The Little Wooden Head's not belly
begot, but a wholly invented boy.
Naked came he from the light
of a puppet-maker's dream, his Father-God
wished for a son and lost him to a fish
in the sea. Sad father is he

now. He misses the son he
so carefully carved, that belly
button a dot of paint, perfect. The fish
swims on, oblivious of father or boy.
All waves and billows pass over the God-
less boy, a mixture of wood and hope. A light

hand his maker used: absurd nose, light
blue eyes, black hair. He
would make a charming son. God
or no God, he's birthed from the fish's belly,
skin for skin, lying on shore now, a real boy.
What mean you, O sleeper, fish-

birthed, sand wracked? The fish
swims away. Good bye-- Mother-- the light
of morning dries salt and sea to new skin of boy.
Why is life given to the bitter? Why sun to misery? he
asks, turning on his new flesh belly
sans omphalos, still. He's set to look for God

or Father, or that bright glimmer of fish he
barely remembers. Only the belly, so utterly without light,
will haunt the boy, the new child of God.

home|about this site|next sestina