April Fox

I tore off my face

I tore off

my face

and set a new one on, one without the scars, one with

real eyes 

where the maggot holes had been

one without the sounds of mad dogs barking in the ears,

relentlessly. 

I tore off my

face, and set a new one on

one with creases in the skin from laughing,

crooked teeth, and notes

drawn in the margins. 

I took the old one, laid it gently

in the warm, soft grass

like an infant in the rushes

left alone there,

left for dead

Drew a thread from flesh to animal,

leashed the dogs there

tied them up, tethered to the screaming

And I took the silence with me

I took the silence

like a gift.