She Thinks She Hung The Moon

My head is a pincushion for darning needles.
It is an egg containing its brood.
It shares its nest with legions of Roman Soldiers
Perhaps it is over-inhabited.
It does not bite.
My head is a tabernacle, it loves the smell of frankincense.
If my head were a prison it would be empty.
It would be filled with the music of orange blossoms.
My head is a quiver, a patch and a satchel.
It is an arena.
My head is a satellite drifting out of its orbit.
Heads like mine have been found on all seven continents.
They have been linked to life on the other planets.
They have been stamped on coins and traded for food.
My head is a nest of boxes, an overnight case.
It has been bombed and looted and sacked.
It has been riddled with scarves, with shoelaces.
My head is an unopened geode, an unopened coconut.
I like to listen to it slosh around.
I like to think of the moon working on it.
My head is a good hiding place, a safe house.
It is where to be in a lightning storm.
It is a cave curtained by a waterfall.

~ Dara Weir

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