After the Fall
by Donald Illich


One day I went to pieces. My
left leg fell off, decided to return
to college. It wanted a degree in
computer science or psychology.

Wasn’t sure. My right arm bounced
into a gulley where an ant hill
declare it their new god. Butterflies,
sacrificed. Oracle of picnics,

appointed. My two other limbs
formed a comedy troupe, which
played sixty-seven consecutive
nights at The Laugh Hut. They

joked about bad airline food, lame
dates, and the travails of missing
a body. They bombed on the late
night shows. Cannibals ate them.

My torso couldn’t be resuscitated.
The hospital nailed it to the bridge
to warn people not to consider
other religions beside medicine.

My heart bled the word “traitor”
on my skin. Fear of stethoscopes.
Only my head lived life as usual.
It went to work late, complained

about the local café being out of
cranberry muffins in the morning,
typed loudly so his boss would think
he wrote important documents.

It continued dreaming about losing
itself in Milwaukee, watching
slide shows of Christian pageants,
talking with its dead grandfather.

Nothing had really changed. It
didn’t need anything but a mind
as long as the soul tagged along,
driving a high-octane ghost machine,

racing its spirit from one place
to another, avoiding the big crash.






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