Feather-plucking

I hide behind the tall tree. I shall claim it as my adult neck. the Scarecrow grins and I continue climbing up. Up the ladder. I am pleased about my nailing the hook and the ladder on the tree. Children are worth much all the time. I am sitting in the park. (I am old.) I am watching ducks, watching little babies rise up. I take off my lips and jump from the tall tree. I am having difficulty telling apart children from ducks. The sprinkler turns on, and I am cold (and scared). I am a baby again, rocking, cradled in the arms of the Scarecrow. And the grin on its face. Scratches on my face. I can smell myself—good, sanitary, replete. I begin to eat my hands, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit.

When I do not want this any longer, I say no to the Scarecrow. I dismantle him and sweep the dried clover into the barn. I want to burn it, but I do not have a lighter. I climb higher.