The last place that hurts is my head.

Or maybe it‘s my neck.

I don’t even care which,

my worry nerve numb.

But if the neck could be unknotted to

let the head go, perhaps the head

would bob off,

scalp curling with colors,

eyes empty of everything,

no grudge, no souvenir, no secret.

From the cabinet in the bathroom

again I take down the bottle of pills,

shake out a clean new pill.

This is the secret, I see.

Or perhaps the grudge.

Into my mouth I sneak it.

Head on unhelpful pillow I promise,

“I will tell no one,

and maybe even, with God’s help,

I will sleep and forget.”

Sleep comes.

Not so soon as to lead me to believe

it has to.