Wooden Head, By Christopher Hileman

Wooden Head
by Christopher Hileman

I wanted to be
a real boy way back then
and got my damn wish.
I fell for you hard,
skinned in seventeen places
scabbed and sore, torn up.
Had I stayed in wood
there would have been bashed edges
and splintered corners
but no bloody skin –
you ran from me just the same.
You grabbed my heart, tore
it out of my chest
and it shattered as if wood
into twelve pieces.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.


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