Head Count

_{Photo by Tracy Fuentes}

By Giavonna Ruggeroli-Wright

When searching my mind before I sleep

I prefer not to be counting sheep,

Rather, my victims in my compulsive homicide

And count their heads mounted on my walls – mortified.

There is Sir Grimson with his long yellow beard

Who would not grant me a loan and smiled his sneer.

Next to him is Madam Pompeii, with short brown hair

Who would not settle a debt after I won in a dare.

Mr. Thomas is fourteen heads down from them

He upon my new shoe had spit on it phlegm.

Five from him is a man unnamed

Who said, “The murderer running loose should be defamed.”

Such rage flows within my bones

And yet I cannot calm my inner groans.

The taste calls to me once anger arrives

The one who inflicts it – never survives.

Like ominous coals that keep their heat

I simply cannot get to sleep

Unless I recite my victims’ demises

To which sleepy eyes find it suffices.

Alas, the humorous part to my evening routine 

Is that I fall asleep well before I count to twenty.

How many heads do I relentlessly take?

My dear, if only I could count them all as I lay awake.