Austin Metze
Why I shaved my head
I sliced myself into halves
half old, half young
half asleep, half awake
half dying, half still to be
When my youth went missing
I hid that news under a cap
I wore it everywhere
blanketing the imaginings of others
I took it off to trap a bird
fooled by the promise of light
through broken stone
and released it to the sky
along with any misgivings
about my half bald self
the half that was aging
the half that was sleeping
the half that was dying
I am whole
and completely bald
Broken glass
Shower me with praise
breathe life into the coals
beneath the ashes of my life
If you see anything that sparkles
like shards of broken glass
show it to me
It is not a broken dream
but part of one not yet assembled
The long exposure
There is a silence over the land as if the world is holding
its breath. Above me, a plane too high to hear leaves behind
a white chalk mark. The birds are unusually quiet.
They must be conspiring or packing for the trip south,
tying up loose ends. The sound of a chain saw with time
lapses between cuts-humans who are not in on what's
happening-imbeds itself into the silence that covers us
like fresh snow. I'm following examples set by the clear
blue sky, a subtle breeze and all that grows, now posing for
a long exposure. It was cold last night and this morning
so it may all be about the approach of winter and nothing
more. I wish that were true but I read this morning that
the birds are dying.
About the Author
Austin Metze is a poet and artist who has lived with his wife Lainey in Woodstock for the past twenty nine years. He published a book of essays and poetry in 2017, When life calls you out it’s usually onto a highway, and is currently working on his fourth poetry chapbook.
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