By Rachael Hill
Take apart my face, piece by piece; start with the large features
place my nose in a bowl of its own
pop out my eyes and rest them in egg cups, irises up
peel off my lips, one at a time
and lay them to dry on a strip of paper towel
slice off my ears
and plant them in the garden so I can listen to earth’s beating
shave the hair from my scalp
matt the shorter locks into felt for cloths and tea cosies
but gather the longer lengths and hang them in plaits by the door to ward off evil spirits
pull out my teeth one by one
and secrete them in tiny vessels about the house, so I, like God, can be omnipresent
pluck out my eyelashes, lash by lash
and stitch them into curtains
my eyebrow hairs you can scatter like ashes to the wind, let it take me where it will
peel the skin from my skull
and hang it in a tree at the bottom of the garden
something will eat it
pour my soupy brain out through my open ear canal
and use it for pickles and preserves
when all you have left is the bone of me
wash me tenderly and with grace
light a candle in my base
and leave me to the fates.