This is a new prose poem in process, which is weird because 1) I think I could write ten poems on the subject of Modern Phrenology, so perhaps a series? and 2) I usually don’t use line breaks and am more of a prose block kind of girl. But here goes–
A Modern Phrenology
For John the Baptist
Your head sits on a platter atop my desk.
An indentation in the clay,
a hairline crack from the kiln,
the sound you make when your lips touch.
Your hair grows individual miracles,
your eyes those petite marbles the color of heaven.
I know you from the shape of your skull.
You can not hide your bowl,
your clay mound,
its reputation preceeds you.
A landscape, a globe, a sea of tranquility
that pretends not to feel the culminating heat
of 2000 degrees farenheit.
The soft sounds of your fontanel,
lobes to sponge, to parse, to emote, into a cup of honeyed glaze.
That laquer, that varnish,
calcium takes its shape as a prediction of beauty.
Don’t you see, on the tv?
That mask of bisque? The perfect shape of that ladies’ egg?
The way her curve speaks volumes of popularity and luck?
We have not changed so much as to not want good breeding,
the dove-like softness of our brow,
a gentle slope of a skull that promises to be kind.