We are planting the baby heads by moonlight

Alan Catlin

in the rock infested fields. Not real
baby heads, but plastic ones, found in
junkyards, burned out buildings,
foreclosed homes. Some damaged more
than others, their pried open eyes staring
at nothing now and the plastic sheets real
babies were changed on transmuted into
flesh for all the unseen creatures stumbling
about among the refuse, crawling on all
fours, crying out the way toddlers do to be
saved from everything let loose in the night.

We are planting the baby’s heads. Hoping
that with nurturing and with care, they will
grow into something fine that will be cherished
in a way that only children can be. The ones that
don’t, we will leave behind to become snowmen
and women, effigies that become scarecrows
in another life, in a field like this one, where
the moon is the sun and night, is day, where
all the old appliances go to die, you can hear
their coils heating, the incessant hum of the
refrigerators, the singing of the stoves.