Poem: ‘A Shrunken Head’
Frances Leviston, 20 October 2011
In the cargo hold, cruising at thirty thousand feet above blue islands, galactically cold, I float between Oxford and the site where I was found
then traded on. I cannot see for bubble-wrap. At this stage in my repatriation I belong to no one, a blip, a birdy ounce in the undercarriage.
Only the curator knows I’ve gone, and who is left. She redesigns the tour: lizard bones replace me,...
