Headless History

Beneath skies veiled with the smoke of
ten thousand forests,
dappled with holes from chemical plants
and emblazoned with furtive glances,

history’s statues – vile, crude, or true
cast long shadows into cesspits.

Their heads topple over
during a selenite eclipse
that foretells, the astrologers say,
of a psychic break.

As the world turns dark,
pitch as Jurassic tar,
more heads fall,
limbs dismembered,

monuments to a past
better forgotten collapse.

They do not crumble
as stone does amidst elements.
Instead they thud – within
earshot of a chiming clock

Father Time—

they are put to rest with
a lullaby-cum-dirge
that simmers to the tune of residue.

Morgan L. Ventura was an archaeologist in their (recent) past life. Now, they are a writer and folklorist living between Oaxaca, Mexico and the Midwest. Their poetry and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Clockwise Cat, Jadaliyya, and Folklore Thursday. When they are not interviewing archaeologists or obsessing over monumental heritage, Morgan enjoys making comics and listening to podcasts.