The heads of Farrah Fawcett and Cher
grin beatifically in your garage. With smeared mouths
and unruly tresses, they look like beauty school models
for hairstylists or makeup artists to practice on.
You used the rubber canvas of their rapt faces
to paint—grape eyelids, root beer lips, rouged cheeks

like huge pink lollipops. You adored that acquiescent head
until her makeup was gone. Then you got bored and left her
hanging from her hair above the tackle box
with its fishing lures—artificial feathers, fake worms, hooks.
And the boom box plays so many songs about blow pops.
And the boom box plays so many songs about blow jobs.

You used to save the wrappers from decapitated Dum Dum suckers.
You used to save the eyes from hollow white chocolate bunnies—
plastic baggie zipped around flat discs of sugar with painted-on pupils.
You used to freeze frame horror movie cleavage. Oh heaving necklace
of blood. Oh jagged hacksaw. Oh brilliant brainchild.
You used to play with headless Barbie dolls. Then you realized

gaping she’s lost her potential to give or resist.
You became disillusioned with that cold neck hole.
Candy ring, scented nail polish, Lip Smacker, edible panties,
cherry Kissing Potion dripping off quivering lips.
Charm Pops and girl-shaped piñatas—
the special treat won’t come out until you bite it or beat it

unless you’re graced with the patience to lick & lick & lick…
but they taunt you. Imagine you’re purchasing another lollipop
and the clueless cashier flashes you
her fruit-flavored lips/ her soda pop-flavored lips/
her bubble gum-flavored lips/ (her horror movie cleavage).
You know how a kiss would taste better than hard candy,

so you cut off her head.