So, she said that he said that a friend of his heard it from that man with the wooden eye that the
person in that house, you know, the one with the yellow door
chipped paint, yeah, that’s the one,
with a concrete garden, yeah, well,
the man in there, told the woman in the shop on the corner that the woman who smells of butter once had a son
who was born with two heads and was donated to that hospital where they cut him open
with sharp knives and placed parts of him in a jars.
Well, the jars just gathered dust and were used as elaborate door stops .
Doctors came and nurses came and doctors went and nurses went
but the pieces of the boy stayed floating in formaldehyde, floating frozen in time.
And while the boy stayed locked in his jars the woman who smelt of butter prayed
each day she prayed on her knees she prayed while photos of her two-headed son became worn pages in well thumbed journals.
topics of conversation on late night TV shows.
The woman swore to the man at the bus stop that she had seen a visions at night.
So the man with the teeth that resembled beer soaked piano keys
walked like a ghost through the town and he remembered the boy with the two head
it’s something you wouldn’t forget he once told his son in a bar where the only sound was that of
darts hitting a board.
And the Doctor who had performed the operation
well, he sits in a home by the sea with a jar by his bed that contains a face of the boy with two heads.
He ponders to himself, cause there’s no need to speak out loud when there’s no one to listen.
And the woman who smells of butter walks around town looking at buildings,
staring past the clouds,
muttering things under her breath she waits
waits for the day when darkness will engulf her as
the people in the town still point as she walks by,
still stare and avoid her eyes and if only she thinks, if only
and a jar still sits in a hospital behind doors
gathering dust and what’s inside will never age.